Reap What We Sow
by Cap. Lawliet
Summary: Make no mistake, Ceres Rythe did not Volunteer for the 68th annual Hunger Games out of duty to Panem or loyalty to District 4; she did it out of a petty lifelong bet against her childhood adversary. Driven by her competitive nature, she is determined her action will not be in vain. Finnick/OC, mild Seneca/OC
1. Prologue: in the net

**A/N: This story will revolve around my District 4 Victor OC, Ceres Rythe, and her experience in the Hunger Games. This is the first story, which will cover over her, well...story, and then the following ones will revolve around the events of The Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and Mockingjay. T** **he story will be rated T for teens, but may go into M for Mature as the story goes along. After all, the Hunger Games does get very bloody and gorey, and I'm not one to shy away from that...and maybe some smut, too. And yes, there will be romance in this.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games trilogy, nor am I profiting off of this story. The Hunger Games belongs to the fantastic Suzanne Collins. I am writing it for the sole purpose of my own fun and enjoyment of writing. The only characters I own are my original characters.**

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

 _in the net_

* * *

The spear is raised high above my head, tip pointed downward as my eyes move carefully across the blue surface. I am waist deep in the salted water, though the tide drags itself across my torso from time to time. My breathing is controlled. If I were to be honest, I would say that my arm was beginning to ache from being in this position for so long; my wrist quivering and my fingers going numb. But all I have to do is spare a glance at the boat several yards away from me and I know there is no turning back. My father is watching, as he settles and adjusts the net far from me. I cannot and will not disappoint him. With a loud sigh, fighting back the ever growing urge to sink deeply into the water, I look back down. My feet are carefully balancing on a set of rock formations that extend from the mainland, toes curling over the course, hard surface. If I were to take a step forward, then I would sink into the deeper waters. I swallow. My father has taught me many fine tricks to keep me from stumbling over myself, as well as to concentrate upon the fish around me; to feel, to see, and to sense. I inhale. I trust he won't lead me astray. My eyes briefly flicker back to the boat.

He is still watching.

I release a shaky breath.

A scaly form brushes against my calf. I fight the urge to visibly perk, as to do so would scare the fish away, so I find myself inhaling and exhaling steadily. I am still again, my hands flexing tighter around the hilt as I brace for the impending strike. The fish wiggles through my legs and ahead of me, unsuspecting. I hold my breath. Once it is within adequate distance, I exhale. My spear impales through the fish's side, as its body gives a last jerk as if to free itself, before it begins its deathly spasms. A triumphant smile catches across my face. Raising my spear and the dead fish overhead, I wave my free hand upward; my father raises his in return. Pride has overtaken my senses. My first fish! My first fish on my own! My brother will brag that he caught his first fish at five, since I am seven, but as of now I cannot bring myself to care. I adjust the spear in my hand, ensuring that the fish is safely ensnared. Once this is done, I dive down into the water, fish raised high, and my free hand paddling towards the boat. My father does not bring the boat closer, so I swim the long distance; bobbing in and out of the water.

My father is not a bad man, mind you; he simply expects me and my brother to be pushed to our limits, to ensure we aren't … weak? Is that the right word?

When I reach the boat, I am panting. My father takes the spear from me and places it down on the floor of the boat, and then he helps me up. My hair smells like seaweed and it clings tightly to my crusting face; as the sun had been beating down on it for hours. My mother will have to use salve on it again. My toes and fingers are encrusted with sand and seaweed, and there is definitely something in my ears. For good measure, I tilt my head and begin to shake.

"Good job."

I pause, enjoying the compliment. "Thank you, dad," I say, looking at the fish. "What kind is it?"

He peels the fish from the spear. "It's a Redeye," he says, as he tucks the dead creature into a grey satchel. "We'll keep this one for supper. Your mother can cook it into something nice…maybe a stew…"

He trails away, his eye looking out towards the water in one of his moments of quiet. My mother says that he does this when he needs to collect his thoughts, or when he is having a "bad day." You see, to me, this man is just my father and one of the many fishermen in our District. But to the Capitol and all the other Districts, he is Rheon Rythe, the Victor of District 4. Although I am young, I know what the Hunger Games are, as my family goes out to watch it every year – as, my mother says, it is our solemn duty. My mother tries to avert my eyes, to shield me from what the Tributes do to each other, but in the end I always watch. It's not out of pleasure, I think; more curiosity. I sometimes watch the Games and try to imagine my father's face, younger and less wrinkled, among the others. He is not particularly tall or muscular or strong, but I am told he survived out of wit and resilience. Truthfully, I have no set answers, as my mother always slaps my hand whenever I try to bring it up, and I seldom have the courage to ask my father in the rare moments where we are alone.

I look up at my father, taking in the man who leaves me every year to help the Tributes in the Capitol, and who returns more wrinkled and grey than before. Like the tide, the Capitol pulls drags him into the ocean, and then hurtles him back to shore. His face is squarely shaped, with wrinkles and lines around his eyes and lips, as if someone sat down and spent careful care to draw them is. His eyes are sunken in, though to be truthful … he only has one eye. His right eye is the color of the sea around us, but it is almost always dulled and muted, as if the life has been drained away. The other eye is glassy, because it is glass. My mother tells me he lost his eye in the Games, and that he denied any fancy resources from the Capitol. Instead, he opted for a glass one. I don't know why, and my mother hates it when I ask questions.

But as it were, my mother is not here, and this is probably the only time I will be alone with my father in a while. Usually we are accompanied by my brother, or I am left at home. (Technically, he should be home, as well, since a Victor has the luxuries the working class do not, but my father is not a man so easily held down.) But in any case, tomorrow is the Reaping, which means that the Capitol's oddly dressed Escort, Ivoree Greenscape, will be coming to take two of our own. The Victors will be going back to the Capitol with them, including my father. I do not know when we will be alone again, so I opt to claim the now before it slips away.

"Dad?"

He grunts.

"Does your eye ever hurt?"

I decide to start my questions slowly, rather than leaping immediately into the queries that swim busily through my mind. Based on his arching brow, I presume this was the wiser move.

"Sometimes," my father says, as he pulls the net from the water and onto the boat; a gaggle of fish ensnared in it. "It's a dull kind of pain, but it could be worse. I could be—"

"Dead." I start helping him pull the net up. Admittedly, I know he does not need my help, since he is stronger and older, and I am young and scrawny. But I want to help … and I figure if I help him, then he might be more willing to share some answers. "Did you like fighting in the Games?"

"Ceresea."

 _It's Ceres_ , I think, but I do not say. His voice is scolding, but I continue. "I overheard some of my classmates saying they're going to Volunteer this year. They say it brings honor their families. Why would someone want to fight in the Games if they don't like it? Did you Volunteer, too?"

He sighs.

My father is not a man driven by anger or by irritation, but I can tell he is growing weary with my queries. His brow is crinkling, setting a greater set of lines into his face. A part of me considers retracting my previous questions, to leave the matter alone, and to mostly leave him alone. But it is so _rare_ that I am alone with him, with neither my mother nor brother there to pester us. Both would ridicule me for pestering him, but it's something I can't help. If I am going to learn about my father's experience, I want it to be through him, not through stories or archives.

When minutes tick by as we sit quietly on the boat, I believe that the talking has expired. He has returned to his quieted state –

"No, I didn't Volunteer, and no one Volunteered for me."

My disappointment immediately subsides, replaced by a newfound curiosity and excitement. I sit upright. I have heard of many people in our District Volunteering, partly for glory and partly for vanity. It is no secret that some of the stronger folks are groomed at a young age to prepare for the Reaping, even though it is _technically_ illegal. So it startles me that my father did not Volunteer, and that no one Volunteered for him.

Rheon starts to paddle the boat back to shore, while I tie a knot in the net.

"Did you want to be in the Games?" I ask.

He mulls over my question. "It doesn't matter. I won."

I beg to differ on the former. "I would've Volunteered for you."

His eye goes cold and jaw clenches. "If you saw what I saw, you would rethink that…now help me with the net, no more talk of the Games, or else I'll tell your mother you were more trouble than you're worth."

I have more questions, but my father's threat makes me go quiet. Once docked, we spend the reminder of the time collecting the fish together and tying the boat back up. His expression is more stone-faced than usual as he does this, and I cannot help but feel mildly guilty for having caused him such strife. But all the same, some of my questions were answered, and I intend on unlocking more.

My father looks over the sandy dunes, hand over his eyes against the sun. As a Victor, my father has luxuries that most do not have; food, supplies, and comfort. He does not need to fish anymore, or do any form of work. But my father is not a man to lay around the seaside house and do nothing, so he opts to collect and gather fish, and then pawn it off to other fishermen, who in turn sacrifice it to the Capitol or sell it in their own markets. It is not a glamorous lifestyle for a Victor, but it is one my father favors; I believe it keeps him sane.

"Does the Capitol know you fish?" I ask, even though I know the answer. I merely want him to talk to me.

"It doesn't matter."

Rheon says no more after that, so I sigh in defeat. "Who's taking the fish today?"

"Neleus Odair and his son."

I feel my eyes tighten. "…not _him_."

Cruel thoughts slither into my mind, as my knuckles clench at my side until they are pale and shaking. I do not have time to say another word before I see two figures approach from the sand-beaten path. I see the Odair family. Neleus Odair is a tall man, with copper red hair and a scruff to match; he is young, and his eyes are dark. Neleus' son resembles his father, with tanned skin and coppery hair. Finnick goes to my school, but he can more often be found by the docks; diving like a dolphin through the water, fish all but in his mouth. My jaw clenches. He thinks he's a better fisherman than me.

 _He's right_ , my brother says when I express my jealousy.

Finnick makes an honest living off of fishing, whereas my family does it more as a _hobby_. I wonder if this brings him some sort of demented satisfaction; as if he is better in more ways than one. But it is not as though the fish comes when we call; we work hard for it. Nonetheless, Neleus has no qualms with taking fish from my father, as it means he can bring double the load, and gain full credit for it – though I often suspect if the District knows, but stays quiet about it.

"Neleus," my father greets.

"That's quite a load you have," Neleus compliments, regarding the net full of fish. "Did she help?"

"I did," I say, noting how Finnick smirks. "I caught one with my spear today."

Neleus spares me only a brief glance. "Impressive. By the end of the year, I imagine you'll be able to catch more." He redirects his gaze to my father, and they begin to discuss business.

I cannot help but note the dismissive tone he adopts, but I do not take it to heart. After all, Neleus is here to collect our fish, not sing my praises. Though that would be nice...

My thoughts are rudely interrupted when Finnick is suddenly sauntering directlly towards me. Finnick is a year older than me, but he acts as though he is one of the adults; proud and confident, able to speak however he pleases. "How many times did you trip trying to catch that fish?"

My face flushes. My memory collects unfortunate happenings of myself falling into the water as I blindly tried to spear a fish, with Finnick laughing in the background. He and my brother seemed to enjoy watching me mess up. "One day I'll be a better fisherman than you, Finnick," I say, deliberately ignoring his question. (For the record I did not slip, I merely stumbled over a few times.)

He snorts. "Maybe you'll be _good_ , but you won't be better than me."

I glare into his eyes. "Just you wait, Finnick. I _will_." Rheon and Neleus are too preoccupied to care what we are saying, so I lean over until we are almost nose to nose. My fists are balled at my side. "I will find a way to prove to you I'm better. And stronger."

Finnick smiles, visibly trying to withhold a laugh at my display of power. "I was catching more fish than you when I was four, so you being able to catch only one now at seven...not all that impressive, Rythe."

I open my mouth to retaliate, but I am silenced by the abrupt quiet of our fathers. They are no longer talking about fish or business. Both have grown solemn.

Neleus hands a satchel of fish to Finnick, whilst he hoists the other over his own shoulder. His green eyes are mindful as he looks at my father, then briefly at me. "Good luck tomorrow," he says, to Rheon. "Bring back stories from the Capitol."

My father smiles, but it is brief. "May the odds ever be in our favor," he says, in a tone that breaks from its usual mold to sound _mocking_. "Keep an eye on my family, Odair."

Neleus nods. Turning, he places a hand upon his son's free shoulder, and patted it. "Finnick. We need to get to the market before nightfall..."

Dusk is already upon us, I think, as I feel the final bit of heat from the sun on my face.

Finnick nods obediently to his father, and Neleus releases his hold upon him. With his father distracted, Finnick inches closer to me, and speaks quietly in a tone that is meant to tease. "Five more years, Rythe. Maybe by then you won't be bait when your name is thrown in."

I blindly smack his arm as he walks away, my face reddened and burning from both the sun and my irritation. Neleus gives Finnick a questioning look, but Finnick is just... _laughing_. What a smug jerk.

We go our separate ways. The Odair family departs one way, and my father takes me another. We will go home as we usually do, where my mother will prepare the fish I caught today for supper. We will sit together as my brother rambles on about something unimportant. I can already foresee into the tedious evening, but truthfully, I am not thinking about just that. I am thinking about the Reaping tomorrow and about Finnick's last retort.

 _Bait_. I replay the word in my head. Am I _bait_? Granted, I am short (as is he!), but I know that I will grow taller, and stronger. Simply because I have the advantage of my father being a Victor, with life made easier without constant duties, does not make me weak. No, that doesn't sound right. I think I am contradicting myself, but I refuse to let Finnick be right. If I were to be Reaped, I would be ready - taller, stronger, smarter, older...everything a Victor is expected to be. By that point, I will be catching twice as many fish as Finnick Odair.

Before I can stop myself, I am imagining what I would look like standing on the stage – having been Reaped, or having Volunteered in the place of some poorer, weaker soul. I imagine standing victorious in the Arena, a spear raised high above my head. (I am not covered in blood in my imagination, but I know in real life I would be.) I imagine returning home to District 4 as the Victor. I can see Finnick Odair bowing his head to me, wait...no, on his knees, bowing at my feet. _You won!_ he'd praise. _I underestimated you, Ceres Rythe - you truly are better._ And then he would present me with a spear of fish. _Take this offering of mine! I am unworthy!_

I smile.

 _One day,_ I think to myself as I look up at my father's glass eye, _I will prove myself. I'll be stronger than my brother, than Finnick – better than maybe my dad._

Maybe I can prove myself through the Games…and maybe I can win. But the thought stops short. More so than proving myself, I wonder what it would be like to watch myself fight. What would it be like to watch the Tributes around me die? What would be it like to _aid_ in the slaughter? Would the Capitol be entertained?

We are at our home now, atop the hill on the seaside; a distance from the town. "Dad?"

Rheon grunts.

I force myself to imagine what I would look like, covered in blood - the bodies of Tributes surrounding me. "Why does the Capitol enjoy watching people die?"

I expect him not to answer, but to my surprise he does. "Because it's a game."

I look up at him, pausing in my steps as he makes his way into our home. For a moment, I simply watch how he moves; the limp in his right leg, the way he is hunched over as if in pain. My father played the game. The Capitol has a sick game, I think. But games can be won, and I know I can do it.

 _One day_ , I repeat. _One day I will win._

* * *

 **(a/n): I am absolutely terrible about writing the first parts to, well, anything. Admittedly, this turned out better than I expected, but still. The next chapters will be jumping ahead a few years, and will go more into depth about who Ceresea is, her family, her (problematic) relationship with Finnick, and more! Please, if you are able, leave constructive reviews! Even if it is full criticism, I don't mind - I can always take something from it! Thank you all!**


	2. One: ambition of the sinful kind

**(a/n):** **Chapter one is here. I had too much muse the last few days, so I finished this faster than expected. First, I'd like to thank those who added this story to their favorites and who followed it. It made my little heart jump. So thank you kindly! Anyway, this chapter is pretty character driven, but the next chapter is going to delve more into the action and build up to the inevitable of my dearly beloved Ceres experiencing the Games for herself. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE**

 _ambition of the sinful kind_

* * *

It is a requirement in Panem that the Hunger Games be broadcast nationwide, and that all the Districts watch; one way or another. Today is the third day of the 63rd Hunger Games, and over a week since my father left for the Capitol. As a Victor, he has the attached duty of being a Mentor to the two selected Tributes, and because of this he leaves us every year. I do not fear for my father's safety in the Capitol like my mother does, but I do fear for his sanity. After all, he usually comes home duller and greyer with each set of Tributes he loses. Somehow, his fellow Victor, Mags Flanagan, returns in melancholy and yet is not driven by it. The other Victors...well, I truthfully don't know them very well, but I know enough to see the weariness in their eyes. Still, it always seems as though my father drifts further away. But regardless, the two Tributes he took with him were Nessie Lodge and Jensen Hughes. Both are young, but at least Jensen is tall and has rugged qualities; I imagine the Capitol girls favor him, and as of such, reward him with Sponsors. But as far as their skill goes, I am admittedly on the worried side of things.

On the day before the events of the Games, my two classmates and friends, Mara Spurnire and Harpee Dowe, were making jests over how thankful they were that their own names were not Reaped. Unlike me, neither of the two have the audacity or ambition to even consider the Games; they prefer to watch. Because their names have never been called, they often assume that I am their lucky charm - given my heritage. I usually laugh it off, then listen to them drone on about the Games.

"I think Jensen may win. He's very good looking," Mara had said, as we walked home together. "We may finally get a winner this year..."

Harpee begged to differ. "I think it's going to be the handsome boy from District 1...Gloss." She had drawn out the name in a way that made me cringe. "He's so handsome and strong and...dreamy. Could you imagine his success if he won?"

The reminder of the day had been filled with the ideas and suggestions of who would win and who would die first. But in the end, we departed to our own homes, and awaited the next day.

On the first day of the Games, we watched in the square, but after watching Nessie die immediately by being blown up from the podium, I opted to return home. This is where I have been for the last several days; watching the Games from the holographic projector, trying not to go mad. Truthfully, I am unsure which is worse at this point; closing my eye and hiding from the Games, but remaining oblivious, or watching the death and bloodshed unfold.

I wonder, is my father going m -

 _Crack_.

My thought is cut off by an abrupt sound from the kitchen.

 _Crack_.

A knife slowly cuts through a hardened shell with a loud, unsettling crack, followed by the dull sound of the knife's tip hitting the surface beneath it. The sounds of cracking ranges through the space, filling the air until I felt as if my own bones were being ripped apart. I cock my head to the side, listening to the sounds of my mother in the kitchen. My brother, Liber, had gone fishing early this morning and had returned with two fresh crabs. Instead of taking them to the market, he brought them home.

 _Crack, crack._

I can hear my mother as she uses the knife to cut the crabs open, ripping their shells apart piece by piece. The crab meat is far more valuable than the crimson shell that surrounds it. Under normal circumstances I would not care, but for the last several days things have been anything _but_ normal. My mother's well-timed _cracks_ somehow manage to sync with the violence displayed before me. For every _crack_ came a snap of a neck, followed by the shrill cries of an unsuspecting Tribute as they are slaughtered from behind.

 _Crack. Scream_.

I wince.

The Games are particularly bloody this year, it seems; and it is not boding well for District 4. In the beginning, Nessie made the mistake of stepping off the podium too quickly, and as of such blew up. Her face was unreadable, but I could see in her eyes that she was afraid. Truthfully, I am unsure if she did what she did out of fear and the acceptance of death, or if she was driven by anxiety riddled adrenaline. In any case, she was the first to die. The boy who went with her – his name being Jensen – is alive, but I doubt he will last for much longer. He is hiding by the river in the Arena. On one hand, he is clinging to his element, which may bode well should one of the other Tributes come lurking. But on the other hand, he is in a vulnerable and predictable environment; the Careers will search there first. After all, the first mistake Jensen made was publicly rebuking the Careers in his interview by calling them _spoiled_ ; they will not ally with him as they usually do each year. In the back of my mind, I wonder if my father gave this advice, or if Jensen is an overconfident oaf.

It does not matter, I suppose. Jensen is an attractive young boy of fifteen, who was able to woo the crowd during the interviews with his charm (and earned loud _ooh_ 's during his Career remarks), so I imagine he will have at least one or two Sponsors. If he is lucky. Entertainment only lasts so long, after all. But he pales in comparison to the boy from District 1, the one Harpee was swooning over. Gloss is his name; a typical name for someone from District 1. His advantages outweigh Jensen's alone - including the popularity he has, too. Gloss has likely been trained as a Career since before he could walk; he is stronger, charming, and far more ruthless. Jensen ran from the Cornucopia, whereas Gloss plowed through it like an ox. But if Jensen can avoid or outlive Gloss, or get over himself and ally with someone, then maybe he stands a chance...

As of now, the holographs are showing the male Tribute of District 3 bash in the head of the female student from District 12. Blood and brains spray in every which direction, as the body of the girl spasms in her final moments, and the boy keeps _hitting_ her. Should this particular Tribute find his hands upon Jensen, I doubt that the battle would last for very long – unless Jensen finds his own hands on a weapon, and _soon_.

 _CRACK_.

This one is louder than the last. My head jerks to the side, to watch my mother from the kitchen as she throws the shells aside, and rips the meat from inside the crab out. I look forward again. My mother is a violent cook, but that is what happens when you are raised by fishermen in the rural parts of District 4.

District 3 stands from his conquest, tossing aside the rock used to murder the girl, and moves along. The quiet does not last long before the Games cut back to Jensen. The fool is still by the river, wading in its water as he mindfully begins to catch fish. I inhale sharply. If he opts to make splashing noises, then he is going to only draw unwanted attention to himself. He may as well place a beacon of light upon his head and dance up and down in the water, serenading the sun.

I hear heavy footsteps trudge behind me, followed by the raw smell of fish and salt.

"Who died?"

I look over my shoulder. Liber is standing over me behind the sofa, watching the holographs with a look of interest mingled with distaste. He has a long-standing relationship with the Games that cannot be classified as love or hate, of which I find myself oddly relating to on most days.

I look to the holographs. "The girl from District 12."

"The one who was _naked_ during the chariots?"

"Yes, that one."

Liber rounds the couch and takes a seat beside me. His hair is still wet from fishing, with his body only partly dried; but at least the clothes are fresh. My brother is tall for his age, with a thin build that makes him resemble an eel – in fact, that is his nickname in school. His face is long, but he has a fine nose and deep blue eyes, with a shaggy nest of black hair sitting atop his head. Although he is without grace on land, he swims in a refined elegance that even the bullies at our school can acknowledge.

His long fingers clench around his knees as he watches the Games alongside me. He is not invested in the Games, per say, but his morbid curiosity seemingly compels him to watch.

"Is dad's Tribute alive?"

"Yeah," I say.

 _CRACK!_

Liber jumps, but I keep watching the events of the Games. The Tribute from District 3 is rounding the trees, closing in on Jensen. As it were, Jensen was still in the water, so heavily concentrated on quietly getting fish by means of a sharpened stick that he was not paying close enough attention to his surroundings.

I stand up as my mother breaks another crab.

"I'm going outside."

"You aren't going to watch?" Liber ask. "By duty, you're supposed to - don't walk away..."

I do not even look at the holograph as I leave the parlor, back turned to it all. I know how this is going to end, even though I would like to believe our Tribute would come out victorious. Jensen has not killed anyone yet in the five days the Hunger Games has gone, whereas the Tribute of District 3 has proven himself to be an efficient killer. I do not want to see this – the disgrace of District 4 in losing both Tributes so easily – or feel my father's disappointment and melancholy.

We are only three days into the Games and one Tribute died stupidly and the other is committing fatal flaws in the Arena. Even the male Tribute from District 12, who had been covered naked in coal during the chariot ceremony and who scored 6 on his training, is _still_ alive.

"I'm going to go swimming."

"Don't let the Peacekeepers catch you," I hear my mother yell, but I choose to block her voice out.

I leave the house fast. I do not want to hear another word from my brother or listen to my mother hack away at those crabs. I need to get out.

The Victors' housing is a fair distance from town, residing along the shoreline high atop hills. The view is exceptional, and the angle allows me easier access to sneak from the house without being detected. I step around the house and to the back, until I reach a rocky slope that declines onto the beach. After many years of doing this, I climb downward easily. In the earth-shattering difference between this and the events the holograph played, I can't help but wish Rheon was here to accompany me to the beach. My father and I may not be close, per say, but I do enjoy his company, for what it is worth. In any case, I would rather my father be here with me, stone-faced and reprimanding me for my fishing, rather than being in the Capitol watching his Tributes die stupidly. I can't even begin to imagine the shame my father and the other Victors must be feeling.

I know that Mags Flanagan is a far more compassionate being, so she is likely feeling more remorse in regards to the losses, but given my father's character he must be wrought with shame. After all, his greatest honor is surviving the Hunger Game so many years ago, and now he has to watch others fail where he succeeded. And as far as I know, the sentiments shared by the other Victors are mixed between Mags and my father. Our most recent Victor, Ren MacKaw (who won eight years ago in the 55th Hunger Games), takes on a colder perspective. I met him once when my father invited him over for dinner, but the man mostly keeps to himself. Rheon says he is a recluse individual, with a tendency to be sharp towards the Tributes; expecting only the best. Tilda Fell (who won back to back with Ren in the 56th Hunger Games) takes a softer approach, but she's quiet, and seldom interacts with the other Victors. Rheon seldom spends time with them, and he constantly declines me the option to see them. For whatever reason, Rheon likes secluding himself and his family from the others.

A speck of sand finds itself in my eye, awakening me from my flurry of thought. I rub it away, as I come to my spot on the beach. On most days, it is usually populated with children racing along the shore, seeking out coves and secret treasures, but because of the Games the beach is mine. Peacekeepers seldom come down here, too...so there's less of a risk of being caught and detained for not partaking in the annual viewing. In any case, I will only stay a short while, just long enough to recover from District 4's pride-

My thoughts are abruptly cut off as I see someone on _my_ beach. My breath catches in my throat, my heart hammering within my chest.

 _No_.

Finnick is making a new net down by the sand, sitting on top of a large rock that extends out along the sea line. His hands are working leisurely as they weave the rope in and out, tending to each knot mindfully. I am unsure if he does this out of careful practice or if he simply is wishing for time to wilt away before his eyes. In either case, I am annoyed that Finnick is here. Of all the spots he could possibly think of to rest in, he has to choose here; _my_ spot. I glare at his tanned back. This is _my_ time to be alone, and yet even then Finnick finds a way to muck it up.

I contemplate turning around and leaving to find somewhere else, but I am unsure if there are places that lack the same risk this place does. The option to return home is one I would rather not resort to, as I can already hear my mother droning on about my father and the Tributes, and my brother expressing his opinion on the matter.I cant bear to listen to their drawl rambling. But on the flip side, I don't think I can stand spending time with Finnick Odair. Yet I remind myself not to let _Finnick_ of all people drive me off from my space, even at the cost of my patience.

Before I can think up a coherent strategy, Finnick's eyes have already found me. He is peering over his shoulder, eyes looking me over with an expression I can only identify as mild surprise and amusement. He lifts a calloused hand and waves at me, but I don't wave back. Instead, I march forward, head held high. There is no way I am going to let him scare me of -no, I will not scuttle away like a terrified fish when met with the promise of danger. Besides, maybe i can somehow get him to go away.

Once I am within earshot, he says, "Well, if it isn't Sea-Sea."

My eyes flash. "It's Ceres, not Sea-Sea."

Ever since my threat to him when I was seven years old, he has somehow decided that the most appropriate form of retaliation would be to call me _Sea-Sea_. My own name, Ceresea, is not one I favor, so in a way I have to applaud him for his creativity in finding my weakness. But all the same, I am twelve now, and the years of being called that ridiculous nickname are beginning to wear off. At the very least, now that he is thirteen, he is beginning to let the nickname die.

Could it be Finnick Odair is finally maturing? No, it's likelier that he simply is getting bored with it, and will find a new name for me shortly.

"What are you doing down here?" I ask.

Finnick tightens a knot on the rope, checks it for durability, and then continues. "The same reason as you, I think. Watching the Games can get just a little tedious. Besides, my dad threw a temper tantrum after District 4 lost a chance of winning," he says, finally looking up at me with his sea-green eyes. He is a handsome young man, I admit, but that handsomeness is usually tainted by that damned smirk of his. Luckily, he isn't wearing it today. "It's a bit hard to be invested in the Games when both of our Tributes are dead."

Despite myself, I feel my chest tighten. I did not know Jensen other than he was a classmate of mine, and that he got into trouble once for swimming naked in the ocean after hours with a girl. He was just a nameless face with a peculiar reputation, but after the Reaping he had the chance to be somebody. And now that somebody is dead. I lower my eyes. I will not mourn him, as I did not mourn Nessie when she died of her own stupidity, but I will mourn my father's pain.

"Was it the boy from District 3?" I ask.

Finnick nods. "He drowned Jensen by sneaking up on him from behind," he says. There is a critical look in his expression, as if he is breaking down every solitary thing that Jensen did wrong in his head. Before I can say anything, or ask him to tell me more, he goes on. "Jensen was splashing around trying to catch a fish and wasn't even paying attention to his surroundings. When he was hunched over, District 3 attacked. It was so quick. He didn't even have time to scream."

I try imagine what that would be like. Knee-deep in the water, eyes searching for any fish within reach, only to be tackled forward and…drowned. Drowning is never something we worry about in District 4, at least as an active concern. We are taught since birth to swim; to control our breathing, to hold our breath, and to dive deeper down like a fish. The water is not an environment where we feel threatened, unless the tide is not in our favor. It's just even then we feel some semblance of safety or security…

My body shudders. Jensen may have been a strong swimmer, as well as good at hiding, but he had eliminated his chances of allying with other Careers, and made himself a target becuase of it. Furthermore, he was bigger, stronger, and far more ruthless. Jensen never stood a chance.

"It doesn't matter anymore," I say, walking forward in order to take a seat on the sand beside Finnick's rock. "When was the last time District 4 had a winner?"

Finnick scoffs. "Shouldn't you know the answer to that?"

"Just because my dad is a Victor doesn't mean I know _everything_ about the Games," I snap back, irritated by his assumptions. It was so easy for him to make them, too; even easier to voice them. "And besides, I was just mostly musing to myself..."

He hums. "Sure, Sea-Sea."

I decide not to say anything else. I came to the beach to get away from the Games for a few hours, to lick my wounds, to swim in the water and maybe catch a fish or two if I was lucky. Granted, I did not bring a net or a spear, but I think I can have confidence in my ability to catch a fish with my hands…or mouth. The mental image itself briefly lightens my mood, but it shrouded over again just as quickly as a breeze rolls in. It's a colder breeze.

I won't let the weather or Finnick worsen the day. Refusing to think about Jensen or Nessie or my father, I opt to stand back up and start shedding my clothes. Finnick spares me only a look as I do this, until I am in my underclothes. The tide is gradually beginning to pick up pace, as I know the wind is doing the same far off, but I don't care. I know I can swim against it, or let it drag me back to shore. Before Finnick can say anything, I am running towards the water.

For each step my feet take into the chilled water, I relinquish my thoughts.

My father, Mags, Jensen, Nessie, Gloss, District 3…I try to let go of all of it. I try to imagine the water sweeping it out from under me, and taking it far, far into the deeper parts of the sea. But even as I am pushing myself far beneath the surface, the salt stinging my eyes, I cannot let it go. As I hold my breath, I am thinking about Jensen drowning in that river. I think about how weak he was. _Weak_. How could someone from our District be so weak and stupid? We are part of the Careers, after all.

Jensen should have been more aware. Nessie shouldn't have overreacted. It's their own fault they're dead, and now my father is going to have to carry the weight of that. Nessie stepped off too soon. Jensen was too proud.

 _Damn it_.

My lungs start to tighten, so I kick myself back up to the surface. The breeze lashes across my face as I breathe in and out. The tide is trying to pull me every which direction, but I use my natural strength to keep myself relatively in place. I bob in and out of the water, the salt grinding into my eyes as I do so. The sting does not bother me, necessarily, but it serves as a sufficient means of distraction.

I spit out a mouthful of seawater, when I notice something off in the distance. Finnick is not on the beach anymore, but his net is set on the rock. He must have decided to leave, but if that's so why would he—?

My train of thought is derailed when I feel something tug at my ankle. I kick out, only managing to hit dead water.

Finnick bobs into view.

"You jerk!" I shout, splashing water at his smirking face. I try to kick out at him, but my toes just barely graze his knee, and the effort itself only serves to push me back. He has that smug look on his face, as if he's absolutely thrilled with himself for having successfully suck up on me; what a big accomplishment. "Good for you for being an ankle grabber. Maybe someday that talent will be of actual use."

"You're mad I snuck up on you," Finnick says, in a cheeky tone. "Would it kill you to smile? You look like you just swallowed a lemon."

I send a wave of water his direction, once more causing myself to be propelled back. I regain my composure, but do not paddle back forward towards him. Frankly, I like the distance. "Would it kill you to leave me alone?" I say. "You may think it's cute to be higher than thou, but honestly you're just...just..." I struggle think of the proper word, and the time it takes me to think about it is only serving to enhance Finnick's overly sprung ego. He is smiling now, with his brows arched and a kind of mischief in his eyes. He's enjoying this too much. "You're awful."

The gap that I took trying to formulate that sentence is one that Finnick cherishes, since he decides to take his own sweet time in replying. With a chuckle, he leisurely floats on his back, with his legs lazily carrying him in circles around me; like some shark with too much time on its hands. He's watching the sky as it slowly turns grey, and for a moment I have to wonder what's going on inside of his head. Is he thinking about some witty retort that he can stab me with? It could be he's thinking about the dead Tributes, but he does not seem to be deep within the realm of thought, or show signs of mourning. As far as I know, he did not know Nessie or Jensen, so more than likely he is delving into that mind of his to think up some remark.

Finnick flicks water in my direction. "I may be awful, but at least I'm the only friend you've got."

 _That_ is not the remark I was expecting from Finnick Odair. I have to do a double take on this guy, as my eyes squint through the salt and the breeze, gouging if I have heard him correctly. Against all odds, he referred to himself as not only my friend, but my _only_ friend. I happen to have friends, many friends. I try to reassure myself by naming them off in my head; the girls in my class are friendly to me, and we sometimes go swimming together. We know each other by name, our favorite colors, and even have discussed our crushes. If that is not a friend, then honestly I don't know what Finnick has in his mind. We do nothing but vex each other - if anything, he's an unwanted thorn in my side that won't go away.

Noticing my affronted expression, Finnick starts to laugh. His circles around me extend farther out, arms now sweeping under him as his legs elegantly paddle him forward. I track him as he moves, slowly turning along with him; as if if I were to look away he'd vanish and sneak up on me again. The other alternative is him turning into a shark and ripping my leg off.

"I have friends," I say, in my defense. "Mara is my friend, and so is Harpee. I can list off more if you want."

Finnick snorts. "They're your friends because your dad has luxuries they don't. And you're there...what's the word...lucky charm. Besides, what better chance of survival do they have than befriending the Victor's daughter?"

"Then why does that make you my friend?" I bite out, feeling my heart tighten. I want to believe that it's untrue, but some part of me already knows he's not wrong. They _do_ often ask about my father and his methods of teaching, and they do often reflect their fears of being Reaped. _You're our little lucky charm_ , I can hear their voices chirp. My mind reluctantly wanders to my other fellow students, who treat me kindly and with attention; as if I'm already something special. The thought did occur that they do this because of my family's status, but maybe I've just deluded myself into believing it's all sincere. "Do you think you're my friend because your father takes fish from my father?"

"No." Finnick stops. He adjusts himself so that his body sinks back into the water, his chin now brushing the surface. "I don't care who your dad is. I just care you're mildly annoying and aren't very good at fishing. I could care less about mon-"

"I happen to have improved at fishing!" I snap. My heart is still bruised from his comment on my lack of _truer_ friends, so I gravitate towards his needless gripe on my fishing; maybe it can be a detour away from the uncomfortable topic of friendship. "I can catch more now than you probably can in a day."

Finnick just smiles. "Whatever helps you sleep at night," he says, then looking up at the sky. There are clouds gathering in the distance, gently extending across the yellow sun. "Just remember who your real friends are. Sorry, I meant _friend_."

Now thoroughly miffed, I hurtle a handful of water at his face. He is unfazed, but I can see that he's amused by my gesture. "One day I'm not going to be _just_ the Victor's _daughter_ , or _bait_ , or the _friendless_ girl. I am going to _be_ a Victor."

For the first time in our little conversation, Finnick is genuinely speechless. His eyes flicker across my face, slowly narrowing as his lips part in thought. He is gouging my words, trying to deduce if I am being serious, or if I am still the angry seven year old from years ago who threatened him. Honestly, I am a little pleased I managed to take Finnick Odair off guard. It is not a very common thing to happen to, well...anyone, so I find myself patting my back as I watch the gears in his brain creak in action. A smirk buds across my own face, as I relish in my sweet victory. I fear it may be short-lived, but I intend on taking it in as much as possible.

Seconds tick by before Finnick decides to speak. "You're still convinced you can win the Games? I thought you would've outgrown that."

"District 4 hasn't had a Victor since Ren, and that was eight years ago. What better Victor would there be than the daughter of Rheon Rythe?" I challenge, turning my back on him to swim back to shore. The tide is rising and the weather is proving to be inhospitable. "We can keep it in the family."

"You haven't been trained," he says, swimming up behind me.

My mother is against Liber and I learning how to fight, but we often wrestle on the shore, and partake in lessons behind her back. "Not yet."

My feet come into contact with the sandy base of the beach. Crouching, I make my way forward, bracing against each pull and tug of the water. Once out of its reach, I straighten and turn to fully face Finnick. He follows up shortly after me, with a look on his face that I recognize as bemused judgment. His copper brow is arched high above his forehead, and his lips as contorted into a queer line. I turn my back on him again to retrieve my clothes. The wind nips and bites at my skin.

Finnick walks past me to grab his own clothes, but his eyes are not on them. I can feel his gaze searing into my face; that condescending look that makes me want to throw a damned rock at him. "Do you _really_ think you have a chance at ever winning the Games?" he says, in a tone that mirrors his expression. He pulls the shirt over his head. "The chances of you having your name taken out of the bowl is thin, especially given the fact countless other people put theirs in more times than you can count. What makes you think you're going to be special enough to be Reaped?"

I tug on my trousers. I am loathe to admit it, but Finnick does have a point. The young boy and girls of District 4 often long for the luxuries of being Reaped on the day of reckoning - for means such as glory, honor, and so on; all of which I don't care about. Because of this, they opt to send their names multiple times into the bowl, hoping against odds their name may be plucked from it. And if it isn't, there is always a third option. The first option is to rely on fate. The second is to submit your name more than once. The third is to Volunteer. This is a common practice among people in my District; everyone wants glory, even if it means taking someone else's. Besides, even Victors' children aren't safe from the Capitol. The people won't rebuke the idea of a Victor's child entering the Arena. If anything, it only enhances the Games; one generation to another.

I have no intention of going into the Games out of loyalty or duty to the Capitol; as far as I care, they're a bunch of morons. But I want to go into the Games to prove myself, to my family, to my 'friends,' and above all to Finnick. He thinks I'm weak and spoiled with the luxuries of my father's victory, but I intend on proving him wrong. "Make no mistake, Odair, I may never have my name _pulled_ , but it won't stop me from Volunteering. And when I do Volunteer, you're going to see a new side of me."

Finnick has the audacity to scoff.

Any sound he could make would not bother me in my moment of self-indulgent glory. He can disbelieve all he wishes, for I know that I will soon be strong enough to enter the Arena. Who knows, maybe by next year I will be ready - or better yet, Reaped. "You'll see when I come back a Victor, Finnick." My imagination skyrockets to me walking through District 4, waving to my people; they cry out my name and throw petals at my feet. Finnick is waiting at the end of my parade, with flowers and a smile. _You are worthy!_ he will say. And I will smile back, because I've finally bested him. "Ceres Rythe, Victor of District 4."

"Or maybe I'll beat you to that. You never know, the new Victor of District 4 may not even be you."

It's my turn to scoff. "And you expect that to be _you_ , Finnick Odair?"

"You never know. I may very well be."

"We both know you would never Volunteer for the Games. You have a life here with your dad," I tell him. His eyes narrow at the mention of his father. My tone remains surprisingly quiet, lacking in the aggravation I feel deep within myself. "And even if you were Reaped, I know ten boys would be lined up to take your spot. No one in all of Panem is going to let Finnick Odair win over them. That includes me." I grab the net from off of the rock and toss it inelegantly to him. It flops like a jellyfish, nearly eluding his grasp were it not for his quick reflexes. "Stick with what you're good at. Fishing is in your blood, and the Games are in mine."

I turn my back on Finnick, making my way back up the sandy path. "Go home before the storm hits," I add, as I hear his laughter from behind me.

I know Finnick think I can never win, but I know I can prove him wrong. If all goes as planned, next year will be different. I'll be ready, one way or another.

* * *

 **(a/n): It's needless to say what Finnick's outcome is, but it is gonna be a doozy of a surprise for the others...and don't worry, there'll be more action and story driven elements in the next chapter. I wanted to spend at least one chapter establishing relationships and character, so now that we have this out of the way, PURE ACTION AND NOTHING ELSE! Just kidding, there will be a lovely mix. (At least I hope so.) If you enjoy this story thus far, please leave a review of it - even if it's a brief one! But if you have time, I would really appreciate constructive criticism of any kind! Thank you kindly. See you next chapter!**


	3. Two: take what you must

**(a/n): woot, woot! Chapter Two is here! I hope you all really like it, I worked very hard on it.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWO**

 _take what you must_

* * *

 _"Or maybe I'll beat you to that. You never know, the new Victor of District 4 may not even be **you**."_

For the last year, those words have been playing on an endless loop in my head. _Not even you, not even you, not even you_. Finnick's words would not leave me alone. He does not truly _want_ to partake in the Hunger Games, but I know he wants to watch me burn in the pyre of my own supposed pride. He thinks I would not stand a chance in the Games, since I am still young, and admittedly not the most imposing force. But I refuse to allow this boy's opinion to sway me. I _will_ be in the Hunger Games, even if it kills me. If not this year, then the next. At the age of thirteen, I am stronger than I was last year, and I have been practicing throwing my spear down by the beach side. Liber even allows me to wrestle with him on the rocky shore when I ask him too. Despite him being taller and stronger, I have been able to take him down a few times - without a weapon, too. Because of this, I feel ready. This year will be the year. I can feel it.

In this last year, I have made an oath to myself that I will Volunteer for the Games when I am ready, that I will do it today. Now staring into the mirror in my bedroom, over my pretty grey dress with white trim and blue threading, and over my nicely done hair...I make that promise again. I stare into my dark brown eyes. _I can do this, you can do this_ , I think to myself, mouthing the words slowly, before following up with a quieted whisper. Once my morning ritual is completed, I turn from the mirror, and make my way down the stairs.

Rheon left hours ago to meet the other Victors in the mayor's house. As a Victor, it is his duty to be on the stage, and to present himself with grace and decorum - even though he always looks tired. We said our goodbyes, of course, with my mother being teary and my brother feigning indifference. It is not as though he won't come back; he's a Victor, not a Tribute.

Descending down the stairs, I see that Liber is already in the entryway, clad in a nice button down shirt and trousers, with a fine vest with scaly patterns.

"Good morning," I say, drawing his attention to me.

"When is the Reaping a good morning?"

It is for me, but I decide not to say this. After all, Liber is fully aware of the fact I intend on Volunteering, and usually he says nothing on the subject - nor does he run to tell Demetra of my words. I suspect he does this out of sibling loyalty, so I decide it is best not to compromise such ties by further pestering him. Liber is made easily irritated, after all; with a lack of mental capacity to think things through.

I opt to shrug and smile.

Demetra rounds the corner, clad in one of her nicer dresses, with her dirty blonde hair tied up into a nice bun. "Alright," she says, in a tone that is heavy with weariness. Her green eyes look over our forms, taking in the attire we are donned in, before nodding. "Let's go, dears."

The walk to the square is not long, but with the crowds of people gathering together it feels longer than usual. District 4 is in a buzz, some humming with excitement while others are sparing glances around, with nervousness in their eyes. As a Career District, a majority of the population rejoice in the promise of glory in the Hunger Games, whereas only a select minority find harm in it. The minority in question seems to be made up of Mara, Harpee, Liber, and my mother, as those four are the only ones I know who vocalize their contempt for the Games. Harpee and Mara do not do so out of hate towards the Capitol, or the yearly Tributes who are swiped from their homes, but merely because they fear the promise of death. On the flip side of it, Demetra holds hate towards the Games for what it turned her husband into. Liber, though, has never truly explained _why_ he dislikes the Games. Maybe he is just a coward.

"Ceres!" a voice calls somewhere ahead of me.

I look onward, seeing Mara pushing from her mother to see me. Her hands are outstretched to grasp onto mine. I am surprised that she's breaking the formation in order to see me, but truthfully I couldn't care less; it meant I could see my friend.

Mara is wearing a pretty white dress with blue lining along the hem and sleeves, and stitching that replicates the motions of the sea. "I can hardly believe it's another Reaping," she says with a disbelieving hum. She smiles wickedly at me. "What outfit do you think Greenscape will wear this year? I think it's going to be red and green with polka dots and bright yellow feathers."

I smile. "Maybe the Capitol will send him naked and covered in glitter," I say. "Like the Tributes from District 12 last year."

Mara snorts. "Oh, _please_ ," she says, noticing her mother waving her to go collect with the other girls. "I think Harpee is already in the assembly. I'll see you in there, won't I? I need my good luck charm before I line up!"

 _Good luck charm_. Those words leave a bitter, metallic taste on my tongue. Finnick once said that the only reason I received any sort of attention or kindness from the two girls I called my closest friends was because I was a Victor's daughter, as well as an ambitious future Victor in training. In his head, and now mine, he believed that they thought that I was a shield for them. With my father being a Victor, he could protect them if they were ever Reaped, and ensure their survival in the Arena due to their closeness to me. Alternatively, they knew of my desire to become a Victor myself, so even if they were Reaped, they must think I would Volunteer in their place. Naturally, I would, as the position is mine alone to claim. I would even claim the added bonus of Finnick watching my selfless act that would lead to my inevitable victory in the Arena.

 _Ceresea Rythe, Victor of District 4_.

"I'll be there," I say, smiling at her.

"May the odds be _ever_ in our favor," Mara says loftily, before trotting off to the assembly.

I follow after, yet at a slower pace. Among the crowd of boys I spot the face of Finnick Odair. He does not see me, since he is staring directly ahead, but I can see that little smile on his lips. I am unsure why he's smiling, but I look forward to removing it.

 _May the odds be in **my** favor_.

Once the District is collectively divided among age, sexes, and so on, the mayor of District 4 ascends upon the stage. Mayor Niur Eyphra has been mayor of District 4 as far back as I can remember. He is a short man, with ebony black hair that is starting to grey, with a well trimmed beard that cuts into three like a trident. He is wearing his nicest dark blue suit, which glistens in the sun like scales. Along the bottom of the stage is a row of Peacekeepers. Standing before the microphone, Eyphra raises a hand beside his head and speaks. "Happy Reaping Day to you, District 4," he says in a proud voice, a smile upon his plump, rounded lips.

"Today we gather in honor of Panem's annual tradition - the Hunger Games. First, let us give a round of applause to our Victors."

From the left side of the stage, in order of their victories, the surviving Victors line formally in a row. They nod and wave to the people of District 4, who applaud as each one lines up evenly at the far end of the stage, looking out towards us. My father is among them, of course; wearing a dark suit that seems more fitting for a funeral than anything. And even from the distance between us, I see the line have intensified upon his face.

"And now, I humbly ask you to give a warm welcome to our most prestigious and welcomed guest, our escort of District 4 - Ivoree Greenscape!"

In the Districts, there are assigned Escorts from the Capitol who come to collect the two Tributes, and as it were, ours was one of the most strangely flamboyant individuals any of us had ever laid our eyes upon. Ivoree is a petite man, with skin so pale we often theorize he had bleached himself at one point. His hair color and style change every year, leading a majority of the District to believe it's a wig. This year, Ivoree has metallic-like straight hair that falls to his shoulders, with several stripes of teal evenly divided among his locks. His shirt is lime green, with a dark purple vest over it, and adorned with a large white bow on his collar. His trousers are simply black, but his shoes were the same as his hair. His eyes are a shiny shade of lavender, but my father says those are contacts, and that his natural color is brown.

Ivoree glides across the stage in six inch shoes, hands raised slightly as if to maintain balance - though, truthfully, I think he does this to appear graceful. When he reaches the mic, he all but curtsies to Mayor Eyphra, and then spins elegantly to face the microphone. His silver lips spread into a large, gracious grin; showing his unbearably white teeth to the crowd.

"Today, I have the honor of escorting one very lucky man and one very lucky woman to have the honor of representing District 4 in the 65th annual Hunger Games," Ivoree says, in that lofty Capitol accent that highlights every _s_ as if they are part snake. His hands clap cheerily together. "Last year we drew the ladies first, but this year, let us give the gentlemen a chance, hmm?"

In a sweeping motion that requires more effort than it is worth, Ivoree approaches the bowl to his left; it is large and round and made of glass, full of the names of District 4's males to be sent for slaughter. Ivoree waves his hand theatrically in the air, a broad smile upon his face as he looks over the eager faces of our District. Each year, he waits in an exceptionally long and dramatic pause between introductions and his speech. Maintaining that horribly silver smile, he reaches into the glass bowl and twirls his fingers inside of it, before retracting a thin piece of paper. He opens it with flair.

"The male Tribute for this year's Hunger Games...is..." Ivoree pauses again, looking over the anticipated faces around him. Some of the boys are eager, and some are terrified. He clears his throat.

I find my eyes flickering to Liber, who is clenching and unclenching his fist. _It won't be you_ , I think, as if he can hear the thoughts coursing through my mind. Liber is old enough to partake in the Games, as well as eligible, but I can feel in my gut that he will not be Reaped today. On the stage, the Victors are watching in tense silence. My father seems to be breathing heavily; a sign of his budding stress. I know his eyes are tracking Liber, quietly pleading to anything that would listen that his son would be spared. He says this prayer every year. _It won't be you_ , I think again. Liber's own chest is beginning to quiver, as Ivoree takes his horrible time in announcing the name. When nearly a minute has passed, the oaf finally speaks. His voice bellows like a bell through the square, his horrible accent highlighting each vowel.

"Finnick Odair!"

In this moment, I feel like I am drowning. I feel as though I have dived down into the deeper parts of the sea, the weight of the water pushing against me as I go deeper and deeper into the darkness. My ears are muted as the water floods into them. My lungs sting with the longing for air as I hold tightly to my breath. When I try to push upward, I am pushed back down. The sea is dragging me deeper into its heart, into its darkness; until I know nothing but the silent scream in my throat that is released through bubbles. In a slow motion, I feel my lips part as if to scream, but the sound does not come out. I am drowning in the air, my eyes burning even as tears do not spill from them. My heart is hammering madly against my ribcage, threatening to break from its confines. I can't breathe. My lungs are on fire.

Chest heaving, I find myself thinking again and again to myself: _it won't be you, it won't be you, it won't be you_. This has to be a dream. My shaking hand lifts to touch my arm, as my index finger and thumb pinch a bit of my skin. I do so until I am sure the skin will bruise. But this is not a dream. I am standing in the town's square, watching as Finnick Odair is led by the Peacekeepers to the stage. His copper hair is glowing in the sunlight. He is smiling. I squint, trying to catch his truer expression, or the way his eyes regard the stage he is being led to, but I can't see it. The crowd blocks my way, and the Peacekeepers beside him aren't helping.

 _It won't be you_ , I think again, as I feel my eyes sting. "No."

The word parts my lips before I can stop it. I speak it out loud rather than in a whisper, but the girls around me do not even bother to stare. They are too transfixed on handsome and popular Finnick Odair standing before us, as he greets an excited Ivoree. My eyes start to drift across the other side to the crowd of boys. No one Volunteered for Finnick - not even the overindulgent Careers who covet their chances for glory. They are watching Finnick with raised eyebrows, some with looks of annoyance and others with amusement. I wish I could latch onto one of them by the shoulders, to scream into their faces to Volunteer in place of Finnick Odair.

 _Why?_ I had no doubt in my mind that even if Finnick _was_ Reaped that someone would Volunteer in his place, but yet here I stand, suspended in disbelief. _Why is no one Volunteering? Volunteer, you damn Careers! It's all you have to live for! **Do it!**_

Finnick's words replay in my head, this time louder; so loud my head aches beyond compare. _"Or maybe I'll beat you to that. You never know, the new Victor of District 4 may not even be **you**."_

He can't do this, he can't be in the Games this year. I was going to be Reaped, or I was going to Volunteer. I was going to prove myself.

Now I _can't_. My vision is blurring with the frigid truth I am faced with, so I am unable to concentrate on Finnick as he shakes hands with Ivoree, who is saying something loud and bombastic. I can't hear what he is saying, since my ears are ringing as if I am under water; everything is dulled. I try to imagine myself being Reaped on this day, to have to walk up those steps leading to the stage, and to face the cold truth that only one of us will survive. My hands are clammy now. I may hate Finnick Odair for what he is, for being the cocky, smirking boy he is (who thinks he is my friend over everyone else), but I can't bear the thought of seeing his blood on my hands, or him over me.

I can't do this. I can't Volunteer.

"...ladies' time to shine!"

I blink.

Ivoree has been speaking, but I have not heard anything he says. He is holding the second piece of paper, waving it over his head in a theatrical gesture, with a delighted grin upon his face. Finnick's eyes are overviewing the crowd, and they stick to Neleus. I dare my own eyes to venture to where the older man is standing. Far from view, enveloped in a sea of other faces, I can barely see Neleus' copper head over the surface of the other men. I can only imagine his face. His son has just been Reaped out of the hundreds of others, at only fourteen years old. Finnick may fancy himself to be a man grown, but he is still a child.

 _I am still a child_ , I find myself thinking.

Finnick's eyes find me in the crowd. He offers me that infamous crooked smile, but all I can manage is clenching my jaw and staring hatefully up at him. _Why did none of you Volunteer?_ I think with a hiss from my throat.

"The lovely female Tribute for this year is..." Ivoree plays his game again.

Finnick is watching me closely. I know he thinks that I am going to Volunteer, as I have been bragging about for the last year; to my friends, to the fish we catch, and sometimes to him when we have our rare civil moments. I can feel my hand twitch. For the last year, I have been practicing how I will Volunteer in the mirror; the confident operatic tone to my voice, the passionate smile as the camera turns to face me, and the way I would walk up the stage. It would be with grace, with poise. I would be smiling. In my imagination, my father is smiling with pride, but then I see the dread in his gaze now and my imagination shatters.

"Mara Spurnire!"

I am taken off guard once more. Mara is standing perfectly still in her place far ahead of me, frozen as if she has been made a statue. I can hear her crying as the Peacekeepers come to force her to the stage. She does not fight, but her feet are all but dragging across the cobblestone ground. Harpee is behind me, murmuring the word _no_ over and over again. I can feel her eyes boring into my back.

"Volunteer for her," I hear her hiss.

I do nothing but watch as one of my friends is taken onto the stage to stand beside Finnick. Her face is red and puffy, while his is calm and composed.

Ivoree appears disgruntled by Mara's display, given the fact he visibly pulls away from her to lean closer to Finnick. He quickly composes himself to flash a winning, pearly smile at the crowd. He waves both hands beside the two Tributes, once again allowing a dramatic pause to fall across the crowd.

"I Volunteer as Tribute!" a voice cries behind me.

The voice belongs to Harpee.

Before Ivoree can even react, Harpee is aggressively pushing past me to the stage. Her stride is long and proud, as a teary Mara all but stumbles down the stairs, attempting to reach out and touch Harpee, but the latter plows forward until she is standing on the other side of the escort.

"A Volunteer," Ivoree says in a lofty shrill. "How exquisite! Tell me, darling, what is your name? Did you know Mara Spurnire?"

Harpee does not even hesitate. "My name is Harpee Dowe, and I'm Mara's _best friend_."

The words that follow after are ones I don't hear. The pressing sensation of drowning I felt before has turned into paralyzing numbness, with my body still as stone and my eyes slowly lowering to the cobblestone ground beneath me. It feels unsteady, as if at any moment it will fall out from under me and I will be falling through an endless abyss. My eyes close. I lost my chance...I lost it, but more so than that, I lost other things. I could have Volunteered for Mara, as the opportunity all but presented itself to me on a silver platter. For the last year I had been bragging about my promise of Volunteering. I even rehearsed in _front_ of these girls. But all of it changed when Finnick Odair was Reaped. He stands where another Tribute should be standing, with me standing where Harpee is.

 _I can't do it_ , I repeat to myself. I can't kill Finnick...and I can't let him kill me.

My eyes tighten shut. I did not just lose my chance to be a Victor like my father, or to prove my strength to Finnick ... I am losing my truest friend and the girl who claims I am her good luck charm.

I guess this means I lost.

* * *

When the Reaping is said and done, there is a collective sigh of relief that envelops the square. Mothers hold tightly onto the children they did not lose, with fathers latching onto any part of their child the mother is not holding. I can see Mara in the crowd, tangled in an embrace with her mother. For a split moment, I think about running to her, to apologize, to comfort her, but I decide against it. She will refuse to hear any word I have to say, so I decide to let her cool down, and return my focus to the crowd. There are a select few in the crowds who carry disappointment upon their shoulders. After all, District 4 is still a Career District, thus meaning that there are those here who train from a young age to partake in the Games. I am still unsure as to why no one Volunteered for Finnick Odair, but I imagine I will find out when I pass the local groups of boys and girls who gossip over the Games. In any case, they are not my focus.

Instead of seeking my mother and brother out after the Reaping came to a close, I instead go to retreat to the mayor's home. It is here that the Tributes will be sent for a short period of time - maybe an hour or two - to say their final goodbyes to their parents, to take a Token, and then be whisked away to the Capitol. I have no intention of Finnick or Harpee leaving before I have the chance to say something to them, particularly the latter. Harpee will be undoubtedly furious with me, so I feel the need to explain myself to her before I potentially lose her. Harpee may be my friend, but I know that she is not a fighter. She has spent every year of her life avoiding conflict, and hiding behind others - including me.

Darting through the crowd, I jog my way to the mayor's home, and pay mindful care to the Peacekeepers and guards around me. I have never gone to visit a Tribute before, so naturally I am unsure of how the process may play out, but I an only hope it is in my favor. The mayor's home is large and fair, with white wood carved doors that have designs of the seat and of waves etched into it. Upon arrival, the Peacekeepers open the door for me when I state my business. They direct me down the corridor, where I will find Peacekeepers standing outside of two sets of doors. The location is easy enough to find, as the mayor's home - though grand and large - was small enough to navigate.

The interior of the home is white, decorated with tints of blue and sandy tones, of which created a strangely cold environment. Oddly enough, I can see the Eyphra living here, but that is beside the point. I make the turns I need to before I find my way to the main hall, where I find Mayor Eyphra standing alongside Ivoree Greenscape, both speaking with Peacekeepers in the background, guarding the doors. I don't have to say anything before Eyphra is regarding me.

"Oh, Ms. Rythe," he greets, as Ivoree cocks a pink brow at me. "Mr. Greenscape, this is Ceresea Rythe, Rheon Rythe's daughter."

Ivoree claps his hands together. "Oh, what a _pleasure_ ," he chirps, extending his hand to me. I slowly shake it. "I was _such_ a fan of your father's - oh, I saw the archives of his victory, and, oh, is it one for the books! Truly a marvel!"

Ivoree's enthusiasm for my father feels forced, as if he is trying to play up his interest to appease me or to gain higher standards with the Victors. In any case, I merely nod. "Thank you." I turn promptly to Eyphra. "Mayor Eyphra, I would like to see speak to both Tributes before they leave, as part of their visitation rights."

"Do you know either of them, my dear?" asks the mayor, in a note of voice that implies he is startled.

"I'm their friend. I want to see Finnick first, if I can."

I want to see Finnick before Harpee for a few reasons. The primary one being I know Harpee has many friends and many family members, so I imagine her goodbyes will take longer. Finnick only has his father, since his mother died so long ago I can barely remember her. Neleus never mentions his deceased wife, so the memory was never meant to savor in my mind. In any case, Mayor Eyphra nods at my request and gestures for one of the Peacekeepers to escort me to the door. I voice my thanks as he resumes his conversation with a bubbly Ivoree, who acts as though nothing had at all interfered with their discussion.

The Peacekeeper pauses at the door, hand reaching for its handle as he slowly opens it for me. I do not look at him as I walk into the room. Much like the rest of the Mayor's home, this room is luxuriously decorated. It is a parlor of sorts, with dark blue leather chairs lavishly laid out across the marble floor, with fine tables with carvings of fish laid out around the room; decorated with glass vases full of seashells and so on. There is a circular window across from me, casting light across the duo standing in the center of the room. Finnick and his father are speaking, but remain at a careful distance. There is no embrace between the two like I expected. Neleus was always a standoffish man, but I had at least expected him to _hug_ his son before he leaves. I frown at the display, proceeding to wonder if I am intruding too quickly on them.

Sensing my unannounced presence, Neleus turns from Finnick to look at me. There is a stony look in his green eyes, with arms tightly folded across his chest, and his bearded jaw clenched. This is hardly the appropriate position for a father to be in, particularly when the threat of losing his son hangs ominously in the air. Finnick looks from his father's face to mine, with an expression that is scrunched, and clearly annoyed. _Oh_. The Peacekeeper should have knocked, or rather, I should have asked if -

"Your time is up," the Peacekeeper says to Neleus before I can finish my thought. "Move along."

Neleus looks away with a nod. I can tell that he is saying something to Finnick, but he says it so softly that I am unable to hear it. Neleus leaves without another word, though I can feel his eyes searing into me as he brushes by my shoulder. His gaze is mildly intimidating, but I elect not to stare back. The man is probably trying to gouge why I am here, since Finnick has probably spoken very ill of me in the past to him. Yet Neleus has never looked at me that way before, as if I am some wary being; a potential threat. During the trades he'd make with Rheon, he never even spared me a glance. Shivering due to the peculiarity of his look, I try to brush it off by taking several steps into the room. The Peacekeeper shuts the door behind me with a soft _click_ , leaving me in pained silence as Finnick and I spend a good minute sizing one another over.

Finnick is not donning the smirk he wore during the Reaping, as he looked so utterly proud of himself; already a hero of District 4 rather than shark bait. His eyes are softened, yet I can see the concentration between his furrowed brow, as the gears in his head work in overdrive. His lips are a thin, tight line that creates a hardened look along his jaw; whether this is frustration, distress, or confusion, I am uncertain. Finnick looks nervous above all thing, but it is not the _evident_ type of nerves one would normally see. He is not fiddling with his hands or pacing the length of the room. He is most certainly not on the verge of hysteria. I can just _feel_ the rigid energy from him, and I find myself almost pitying him rather than envying him. Almost.

With a sharp breath, Finnick is done with the silence. He crosses his arms across his chest, one leg cocked outward as if to regain his sense of roguish indifference. "Truthfully, I didn't expect you to be here," he says. Brow arching high above his forehead, his expression shifts into one of calculation; each word he says is one that he has clearly been mulling over. "I didn't even think you wouldn't Volunteer."

My shoulders visibly twitch. I am reluctantly pulled back into the fresh memory of Mara being called to the stage, only to be saved from death's tender grip by Harpee. Harpee hissing into my ear to Volunteer still remains in my own head, a fresh bite that has yet to heal. If anything, it feels as though salt has continuously been added to the wound; until it is peeled over and wrought with pain. It's my fault. It's my stupid fault.

"I know."

Finnick stares, expecting more from me, but I say nothing for an extended moment. The silence must be getting to him, since he breaks it before I can properly formulate another thing to say. "Just say something. You've been bragging about Volunteering for years, and yet all of a sudden you decide you're above that? What changed?"

His tone is condescending, so I glare at him. "What _changed_ is that you were Reaped."

If Finnick is startled by my reply, he gives no indication of this. His expression remains cruelly neutral. Inching closer to me, I find myself noting that there is a bitter smile forging along the once tightened lips. "I get it," he says, lowly. "I jinxed myself last year, didn't I? By saying I'd be Reaped."

My tongue runs along the sides of my teeth. "You did." His smile is spreads. "I figured someone would Volunteer in your place."

"But they didn't, so your perfect plan about going into the Games and having me watch you 'show your strength' failed, huh?"

I don't say anything. My heart is hammering madly within my chest, and my eyes are burning with annoyance through him.

"For the record, this wasn't part of my grand plan. Unlike you, being a Victor and being praised and high and mighty wasn't in the cards. But you know what..." Finnick is nearly nose to nose with me, reminding me of the day when we were five or so; going toe to toe on the beach as our fathers did business. He is not much taller than me, due to my own height, but I still have to look up to meet those narrowed green eyes. Finnick doesn't even blink. "I'm going to win. I'm going to be District 4's Victor before you get the chance to. You want to know why?"

I inhale and exhale sharply. "Because you hate me," I say in spite.

Finnick scoffs. "No, Rythe, because you're making it too easy," he says evenly. "I'm glad you didn't Volunteer, because I would've hated having to kill you. Despite what you may think, I like you, and you are a friend of some mutual kind. But that doesn't mean I'm going to let myself die in there just so you can get the title credit next year or the year after that, or whenever you're Reaped or decide to sell yourself out."

Finnick stating he liked me was a startling thing, but I decidedly overlook it for the sole purpose of dwelling on his belief that he was going to win. Truthfully, I can see Finnick winning the Hunger Games; he's smart, quick, talented, and ruggedly handsome. The Capitol would likely fall in love with him if they didn't want to kill him over his arrogance first. If the Arena is foreboding, then maybe he stands a chance. Nonetheless, I can feel my blood boil over the idea of Finnick beating me to _my dream_ , but how can I say I want him dead?

"So you'll let Harpee die?"

He shrugs. "I can ally with her, and try to protect her, but I can't promise I can get her out alive. You know that."

I glower at his stupid tanned face. "Then at least make sure you do. I want you alive when I eventually _win_ , when I prove myself to be better than you were in the Arena."

This is my new purpose, my new ignited sense of belonging. If Finnick is going to unintentionally rob me a being the Victor of District 4 in eight years, then at the very least I am going to trump him the following year or the year after that by being better in the Arena.

Finnick groans at my announcement. "Maybe I do hate you, after all."

The Peacekeeper opens the door. "Times up."

I nod once in acknowledgement to the guard, but I keep my eyes on Finnick. "Just live long enough so I can win," I tell him.

"When I win," he calls as I am leaving the room, "then I am going to be your new best friend. Okay?"

The door is shut before I have a chance to reply, or even turn to peer over my shoulder at his smug face. With a soft click, I am suddenly disconnected from Finnick Odair; the door between us feels more like a barrier, a lifetime away. He will be boarding that train within an hour or so, maybe less now that the Peacekeepers are getting seemingly antsy. They are fidgeting, glancing between one another; whether bored or excited, I can't say. I can already see Finnick on that train, followed after by my father. _I need to see him too,_ I remind myself as I an led by the Peacekeeper to my next destination. My father knows my connections to Harpee and Finnick, so I want to speak with him on the precautions he will take, and plead with him to find some way to help them. I know my father will do this, as well as the other Victors, but I want to be _sure_.

The Peacekeeper turns sharply to look at me, awakening me from the blur of my train of thought. "Make it fast," he says, in a low tone. "The family didn't."

I nod.

Harpee's parents and her little siblings have long since left her, as they had gone to her beforehand, but as I am led to the door by a Peacekeeper I am greeted by Mara leaving the room. Her eyes and face are puffier from when they were an hour ago, her gaze full of absolute melancholy and distress. When she locks eyes with me, I see her eyes shift into hate. She says nothing to me as she rushes by, but her glare lingers on my skin like a tattoo as I replace her through the door. It is shut behind me.

The room in question is a simple sitting area, with a large window overlooking the town and a glimmer of the sea, with dark blue seating arrangements elegantly laid out into a square. There is a glass table in the center of the arrangement, with a bouquet of flowers set in the middle of that. Sitting on the largest of the chairs is Harpee, who is staring at the ground in silence. She does not regard me for a long moment, but rather lets me stew in the horrible quiet of what I assume is supposed to be a cauldron of guilt. I frown, trying in vain to veil that it is working. I step further into the room. When I do this, Harpee finally looks at me.

Her green eyes are glowing with anger. They narrow when they lock eyes with me, as her brow scrunches up and her lips curl into a vicious sneer. "You said you were going to Volunteer this year. What changed, huh? Did you just chicken out?" she challenges. Before I can reply, she goes on. "You're a coward, Ceresea. You could have Volunteered for Mara. You _said_ you were going to Volunteer, and be some sort of hero, but for some reason here _I_ am and here _you_ are."

Each word stabs into my heart as if I am being impaled. I am a fish caught by a spear in the water; struggling and writhing for air, as I feel the futile grips of death around me. I know that there is nothing I can say that will appease Harpee's temper, to allow her to see things from a softer perspective. _My_ perspective.

"I couldn't Volunteer," I say. Harpee scoffs. "Odair was Reaped, and I can't-"

"You hate Odair!" Harpee says, leaping straight to her feet, with her fists balled at her sides. "Who do you care about more? Your friend or some boy?!"

Face flushing, I find my mind retreating to what Finnick once told me. A year ago, he said that he was my only true friend in this District, as Harpee and Mara have always viewed me as good luck charm to cling to; that our friendship would keep them safe from the Games, as if I was a shield. They would often say how happy they were to have me as their friend, since they did not have to worry about the Games. After all, I always bragged about Volunteering when given the chance, and not once had they ever discouraged me from doing so. It was as if they were fishermen and I was their bait, drawing the predators to the bait rather than to themselves. Now any such delusion of protection and friendship has been shattered on both ends.

Maybe Finnick was right.

"He...he is my friend too," I say in defense. Truthfully, I see Finnick as more of an alliance of convenience rather than a genuine friend, and I now see him as more of a nuisance for getting in my way of the Games. If he had not been Reaped, it would be me in this room, not Harpee. "I wanted to Volunteer, Harpee, but I couldn't, because...because he was Reaped. I can't kill him to win. If I'm going to win the Games, I want him to be there to see me win-"

"Win?!" Harpee's voice raises. "I'm going to die because of you! I had to Volunteer because you were too cowardly to do anything but stand around and just stare at the stage! You could have _won_ the Games, you know! You could have beaten Odair! But _no_ , that could never satisfy you, will it? What will it take for you to accept that you are good enough? That you'll never be good enough?"

She lurches forward, all but tripping over the glass table as her hands find my throat. The grip is not tight, but I can feel her rage. My heart hammers as a soft shriek fills the air before I can stop it, with my hands latching onto her wrists. I am stronger than Harpee in many ways, so I know I can easily overpower her, but the numbing sensations of her confrontation are leaving me paralyzed. I may have doubted our friendship in the past, but she has never spoken to me like this before; so cold, so without care. She is angry beyond any display of words. I can't blame her for her anger, since I backed down on not only my yearly promise, but the opportunity to save our friend from the crucible. Now Harpee, who never wanted to have anything to do with the Games (unlike others in our District), is going to have to possibly die for it.

In the back of my mind, I imagine Harpee choking on her own blood with a knife lodged in her throat. I imagine her dying the way Jensen did last year; pushed down into a river and drowned by a bigger, brawnier Tribute. I imagine many things as I stare into her tear-brimmed eyes, but none of it feels right. I can't imagine Harpee's freckled face puffy with death, no matter how hard I try. I don't know if this is because I don't want to see it out of love and compassion for her, or if I am avoiding it out of sheer, unbridled guilt.

Harpee is sobbing now. "I hate you," she says, her voice quivering and shaking. She says this softly first, as if leaning against the words tentatively; afraid they will be unsuited on her tongue. Ultimately she decides she favors those words above all else, as she repeats them over and over in a resounding cry that echoes through the room. "I hate you! I've always hated you! _You_ , with your big house and money! Your need to win over everyone else! You'll never win the Games! Just face it, you're too cowardly! Daddy can't protect you in there! You're worthless, Rythe - !"

Harpee is cut off by the door opening, nearly slamming against a portrait on the wall as it rears back. Two Peacekeepers enter the room, both charging at the two of us. One Peacekeeper latches onto Harpee by pulling his arms from under hers, yanking her as far from me as the room will allow, while the other grabs my arm and, rather roughly, pulls me into the hallway. I can still hear Harpee's sobs and heavy breathing as my own heart is thudding so madly against my chest it threatens to shatter outward and onto the floor. Despite the intensity of Harpee's words, it is not pain I feel, or grief; the loss of a friend does not touch me in the way it should. It is more numbing than anything else. Did Harpee's outburst indicate we were never friends to begin with, given her stated hate and contempt towards me? Was she just so upset and in distress that she just lashed out at me? My mind is racing with thoughts as the Peacekeeper settles me into place.

The Peacekeeper is looking between the closed door and my blank face, a hand raised slightly. I wonder if he is going to slap me. In the end he does not slap me, but he points to the door; muffled sobs come from behind it. "What the hell happened in there?" he asks, with lacking decorum that I find startling. His voice is vaguely familiar. I believe at some point this man has spoken to me or my father before, but I don't know his name.

My head shakes. "Sh-she lashed out at me," I say, recovering from the shock of what had just happened.

Unsatisfied for my answer, it seems, he continues to stare down at me for answers.

"I didn't Volunteer for my friend, even though I've been saying all year that I would," I explain, my shoulders giving an evidence wince as I hear another cry from behind the door. It goes quiet after that. The Peacekeeper either managed to silence Harpee through comfort or threats, or he used other means. "I didn't...provoke her to grab me."

"It doesn't matter," the Peacekeeper grumbles. "They'll be leaving soon, anyway. Come on, we need to get you-"

"I have to see my father!" I interrupt, before I can stop myself. I need to see him before I leave, I need to. "His name is Rheon Rythe, he's a Victor. Please...uh...your name?"

"Dominic."

The Peacekeeper gestures for me to follow, so I do. We walk down the hallway until we reach the far end of the other side of the house, in a more open space with a white stone fireplace, and adorned with bookcases, a table of alcohol, and luxurious living arrangements. The Victors are all sitting together, speaking amongst themselves; some with more intensity than others. Technically speaking, I have already said my goodbye to my father, before he left this morning, but now I have a new purpose and a new intent. When Dominic clears his throat to announce our presence, the Victors look up. Rheon's eye tightens.

"Can I talk to you for a minute, dad?" I ask.

Rheon nods.

He takes me off into the hallway, where we can otherwise converse without the other Victors being present. He is staring at me with an intense gaze, gouging out my intentions. I breathe deeply before him, cracking each knuckle before I can muster up the courage to say what I need to.

"I just wanted to say goodbye."

"You already did. Now tell me why you're really here," my father says. He is a no-nonsense man, who does not enjoy dawdling around topics when they are in such plain view. He extends his hand outward and places it on my shoulders, with his crusty fingers tightening around the sleeve of my shirt, and pinching the skin beneath. His eye is darkened with suspicion, with intensity. "Does this have to do with the Tributes?"

Ignoring the jab of pain in my shoulder, I put my hand over my father's, staring into that singular eye of his that carries the weight of years of grief and unspoken pain. I squeeze his hand. "You have to protect them," I say, as his eyes close. "I know that's a lot to ask, but I know between you and Ren and Mags and Tilda that you can get them the Sponsors they need, train them to survive - please...I care about them. Bring _him_ home."

Rheon picks up on my change of pronouns before I do. My eyes widen as I realize what I have just said, but I by no means retract my statement to reform my sentence into a more fitting one. I am no longer referring to Harpee and Finnick as a united front, but have slowly slipped to referring to the latter alone. Rheon's brow is arched above his brow, forging a new set of lines along his forehead. With a slight nod, he permits my lapse to fall beneath the tracks, and then pulls me in for an embrace. I do not expect it, as my father is not a warm, cuddly man, but I do not rebuke it either. My father pressed a hand to the back of my head, pulling me closer so he can murmur his final words to me. "If I can bring him back here, then I need you to promise you won't Volunteer for the Hunger Games."

His words catch me off guard.

"...I promise," I say.

* * *

I leave the mayor's house feeling no better than I did when I first walked in. The heavy burden of guilt still wears tremendously upon my shoulders, threatening to break down every bone until it is nothing but dust, and leave me to die on the ground a broken mess. Truthfully, that would be a preferable consequence instead of the guilt and grief I'm feeling. Harpee's voice, as she Volunteers for Mara, still rings in my ears. I can still see Mara sobbing as she reached out to touch Harpee as they took their places. That could have been me. I could have taken Mara's place. Regret stings in the midst of my chest, until I hear Ivoree's voice.

 _"Finnick Odair!"_

How could I kill him? How could I watch him die? How could I _let_ him die? He needs to see me win, he has to. _But at the expense of Harpee's own life_ , I think. I told my father to protect Finnick above all else, even at Harpee's expense. I am gambling with the life of a friend who Volunteered for someone who was not ready, who could not handle the Hunger Games even willingly. What kind of person does this make me?

Wrapped within my own thought, I barely notice a figure standing at the base of the stair leading to the mayor's home; that is, until my arm is grabbed. Spinning around fast, I quickly yank my arm from the stranger's grasp, only to see that this man is no stranger, but is in fact Neleus. Why is he still here? Maybe he has been standing here since he departed from Finnick, but Neleus does not seem like the clingy type, even over the thought of losing his son.

"Mr. Odair," I say, frowning. "What is it?"

Neleus appears to be in thought. One hand is rubbing his beard, while the one that had previously held my arm was held slightly aloft to his waist. He has a similar expression of contemplation that Finnick usually wears, to a degree where the resemblance is near uncanny; if not a little off putting. I frown at him as he takes his time to reply to my query, wondering if it would be best to simply race home and hide myself in my closet until the guilt had subsided. But he speaks before I can do this.

"If you can fish, then I'll take it," Neleus says, regarding me with an expression of sheer indifference.

"What?" I stare at him blankly. "What do you mean?"

"Your father is leaving for a long time, Ms Rythe, so I'm going to be losing business in trade," Neleus explains, in a way one would explain to a child. "I want to keep doing business with your family, especially since my son won't be here."

"Aren't you worried about your son?" I blurt out, absolutely flabbergasted by his lack of _care_.

Neleus' expression becomes almost confused, as if the idea of caring about his son is a farfetched theory extending beyond the realms of reality. After a moment, a scoff parts his lips, and he lifts one hand to scratch the back of his head. "I've lost my apprentice fisherman," he tells me, in a monotonous tone that stuns me into silence. "If my son dies, I can always employ your brother to work for me. It's the way of the tide, girl; the sea takes just as it gives."

* * *

 **(a/n):** **Honestly, I was hoping to use this chapter to get by Finnick in the Games, but it seems as though my muse does not decree this! The next chapter will probably be the last, describing Finnick's interview, the Arena, and Ceres' reactions to it all, and the feelings she gots. We'll also see some tension between Ceres and her friends, as well as how Harpee takes to the Games. If you liked this chapter, please favorite, follow, and review! I love it when I receive reviews, it just motivates me to write more, ya feel? Anyway, thank you so much!**


	4. Three: fear is uncertainty's lover

**(a/n): Thank you so much for the reviews! My heart was so warmed and I was given a gust of enthusiasm to write this next chapter. I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER THREE**

 _fear is uncertainty's lover_

* * *

Mara hasn't spoken to me since the day of the Reaping, and come to think of it, I am fairly certain she hasn't even looked at me since then. The guilt of not Volunteering for her still lingers on my shoulders when I wake up in the morning, until I go to bed late in the evening; just staring at the pale ceiling, trying to make sense of my decision. For as long as I can remember, I have known Mara and Harpee, some way or another. They were there when I first started school. They hadn't paid much attention to me until I made the front and introduced myself, since I was a lonely, little girl. For whatever reason, they adopted me into their little group, and more so than that, they clung to me like leaches on skin. Even after the years they let me in we were together. We often would giggle during school. They would go with me to the beach when the day was clear and the ocean was enticing. Late at night on the beach side, with our little fire, I remember that we would recount our fears to one another. I wasn't afraid of anything, at the time, but Mara and Harpee were.

They feared the Games.

Mara was always quiet when it came to talking about the Games, at least at first. It was always one of those topics she skirted around, her face always going pale when even the word was mentioned. I often thought that she had deluded herself into believing that if she avoided the word long enough that it couldn't apply to her reality. Mara was naive that way, mind you, so it would not be entirely out of character. On the rare event she was brave enough to speak on her fears, such as when we would make a fire together, she would explain that it was not so much the Games that scared her, but the pressure it forged. If she were to somehow taint her reputation in front of the entirety of Panem, she feared that he would sully District 4's starlit reputation. She would often shiver, her hands retracting to fold under her armpits, whenever she spoke of this. She would then smile at me, with those pearly, straight teeth of hers. Her smile was so warm at the time, but as I look back on it now I find myself nitpicking the insincerity of it. The...act. "At least I have my good luck charm," she'd say.

Once more, Finnick's words ring in my ears like an ongoing anthem. He once told me he was the only true friend I had, and at the time I didn't want to believe him. After all, who wants to accept that their rival, the boy who they had been hating for so many years, is their only friend? Harpee and Mara are - were - my friends. I try to delude myself into believing we still are, but then I replay the events of the Reaping in my head and I know that my internal story is only make believe.

And I'm too old for that.

I knew that Mara was terrified of the Games, even if she didn't always talk about it. I could see it in her eyes during past Reapings, when the teacher would discuss the history in class, and when we would talk about it around our glowing fire.

I know I should have Volunteered for her.

Knuckles clenching, I try not to think about Finnick walking on that stage to stand as District 4's male Tribute. I was supposed to be standing there, alongside another male Tribute, just as I had been fantasizing about for years; ever since I was old enough to understand the concept of the Hunger Games. Even in my scenarios where Finnick was Reaped, I always imagined a brawnier boy Volunteering for his place. This is how I always envisioned it, nothing less. But reality has shattered any self-deluded fantasy I have plagued myself with for the last several years. To add salt to the wound, Mara was Reaped - the girl who was terrified by the mere mention of the Games. I had a chance to save her, but I didn't. Harpee did, instead.

My eyes close. I remember listening to Harpee tell me how terrified she was of having her named Reaped, about how she didn't want to bring honor to her District; she wanted to live. Her dream was to grow up and marry a nice man, to have lovely children, and watch the Games from afar. Even as a young eight (or was it seven?) year old girl, I had almost scoffed at the cowardice of her words. At least Mara stayed quiet about her own fears, even if the glimmer in her eyes was evident. Harpee wanted the stale life, though in a way I suppose I couldn't truly rain judgment down upon her. She was young at the time, so I had hoped she would grow out of her little ideas of what a perfect life was. She didn't even accept the idea of the Games as a general concept; it was always as if she was talking about her memorial. It's not a memorial if you have the strength to survive, or even if you do die at least it'll be a memorial of your bravery.

 _I could've proven that_ , I think.

Harpee Volunteered instead of me, and since then Mara hasn't even spared me a second glance. I understand why, but they need to understand...I can't kill Finnick. He needs to be alive to see me win, even if it means -

"Hey, pay attention, it's starting."

The voice jerks me from my disjointed train of thought. I am relieved from my visions of my _friends_ , of Finnick, only to be faced with my brother standing over me as he turns the holograph on. My eyes close for a moment, trying to retain my sanity, as well as recollect my thoughts. My reality and my internal visions are the same now; nothing but the Games, but this time its primary role isn't mine.

It's been a few days since the Victors left with Finnick and Harpee, along with the other Victors of the other Districts and their Tributes, to the Capitol. In those days, Panem has sat in suspense to see what the Victors and Stylists have in line for their beloved representatives. The first step in this is the Tribute Parade, in which they are paraded for Panem to see, in glorious attire symbolizing their Districts, and riding proud in chariots. Sometimes the outfits are grand and glamorous, such is the case when Gloss from District 2 won a few years ago; clad in an elegant robe, with a helm sculpted into wings, and fine gold encrusting his belts and sleeves. He looked like a warrior. But then there were the unfortunate cases. A primary one that comes to mind is when the two Tributes from District 12 were left bare, with only soot to cover their bodies.

My own body shivers. I try not to imagine Finnick and Harpee gliding in their chariot, wrapped loosely in seaweed - _no_. District 4 is an _honorable_ district, with the advantage of being part of the Careers. They will not be so easily overlooked. I console myself by remembering the glamorous outfit I've seen in the past.

I rest my gaze steadily on the holograph, watching Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith as they ready the squealing crowds in the Capitol for the Tributes to be presented. Caesar is wearing a ridiculously designed orange suit with yellow trim, with his hair the same ridiculous color. The man is an eye sore, to put simply, though I admittedly don't see many oranges or yellows in District 4; the colors are usually that of the sea or neutral. Beside him, Claudius is donned in lavender and fair greens, making him look like a flower. They are both smiling, equally giddy and passionate about the day. The energy isn't contagious enough to sway my family and I from our stern silence.

Liber is watching beside me with neutral interest in his light blue eyes, whilst my mother observes from her chair across the room with a mindful look. Truthfully, I am uncertain what face I am wearing, as the plethora of feelings inside of me are a tad overwhelming, to say the least.

The music spikes to life, as the Parade begins.

"Is Harpee likable?"

The question catches me off guard, to say the least. I turn my neck fast around to look at my brother, who is now watching me. I mull over his question for a long moment, my dark eyes shifting over his face. "I think so." At least when she is not angry with me she is likable. Isn't that enough? "Why?"

Liber looks ahead. "Finnick is well-liked at my school, so I think he can charm his way into some Sponsors, but I can't really see Harpee getting any. She's always been off-putting," he confesses, sounding uncomfortably like our father. He isn't watching the Parade as it begins, as the District 1 chariot trots by, clad in glistening attire that catches the sun. My eyes fall back and forth from the holograph to his face. "You know her better than I do, so I think you'd be able to dispel safe judgment."

"I'm not judging anyone," I snip. District 2 goes by, but I'm not paying attention to them. "Harpee is likable enough, and I'm sure she'll try harder to be likable once her life depends on it."

"She seems snobbish, and not the kind of snobbish where-"

"Hush, the both of you," Demetra interrupts.

I nod mutely, my eyes then drifting back to the holograph. District 3's chariot has passed, and District 4 is rolling into view. My heart is racing as I wait in suspense, my hands tightening across my knees until my knuckles are white as sea foam. The chariot is glossy black, shining against the sun's golden cascade, and driven by two white horses, with grey dapples across their hind ends. There is a part of me that doesn't want to see what I know will be in that chariot, since it will finalize the horrible reality that has instilled itself into my once carefully forged vision. I won't be in that chariot, adorned in something a stylist designed just for me, with my hand in the air as I wave to the cheering people of the Capitol. It will be those I never expected to partake in the Games.

It does not take long for them to come into view, and any chance I have to avert my gaze is promptly taken from me. Finnick and Harpee are standing proudly in the respective chariot, each looking utterly...no, I don't want to use stunning as the word for this case, but no other word can apply. The first I see is Harpee, of course. Her auburn hair is held up in a high ponytail, with woven strands of golden ribbon cut in a way to resemble seaweed. It coils around her neck, lowering between her chest and to the center of the toga that she wears. It is a simple dress, off the shoulder with designs meant to resemble the waves, I imagine. Whenever the sun touches the fabric, it glistens like the surface of the sea. She looks lovely, if not madly intimidated by the crowd. She is mechanically waving to them, lacking the same enthusiasm that the others had.

This should be of no surprise. Harpee had no interest in joining the Games, and she probably would have spent the rest of her life eluding it had it not been for the Reaping of Mara Spurnire. She did not have the cordial training that came attached with being a Career, and she didn't ever care to even humor the idea for a day. I start to wonder what the Mentors are telling her. My father is a hardened man, so I can only imagine the advice he gave to timid, defiant Harpee Dowe. Even more so, what did the others say?

Before I can ponder more on the matter, I quickly look to the other before they disappear from frame. Finnick is wearing a one-sided toga, held tightly around his torso, and showing his respective toned chest. On each forearm there are golden wrap designed as seaweed, extending to the start of his elbow. The toga itself is a flattering shade of teal, with colorful sequins that create a glistening reflection; like the scales on a fish when pulled from the sun. Colors from blue, green, to purple reflect on the sun. Against all odds, it compliments his copper red hair and tanned skin. Harpee wears her dress as well as she can, but Finnick wears his as if he was destined to; as if it adorned him in a godly manner. My fingers start to ache, so I pull them away from the clenched bits of fabric from my trousers; wrinkles are left in its place.

Similarly to Harpee, Finnick's right hand is raised in the air, waving to the crowds on either side of him. The audience shrieks with cries and praise to the Tributes of District 4 - particularly Finnick, as his name is chanted among them. He has that smirk on is face - that stupid, stupid smirk. For whatever reason, it charms the audience, as the praise for him lingers even as the following chariots come into view.

Finnick and Harpee are no longer in sight, so I allow my eyes to lower. _Would they have cheered for me like that?_ Despite myself, I wonder what it would have been like to hear my name cried out among the thousands of people in the audiences, to have roses thrown at my feet; to be seen.

My eyes close.

Liber shifts beside me, but I don't humor him with a look. I can already predict the expression on his face; the pale blue eyes blooming curiously, with feigned interest on his lips. "He did good," he says, sounding impressed. The tone matches the expression I imagine him wearing too perfectly. "He's clearly playing himself up, but at least it's working."

"He's only fourteen," Demetra says. I open my eyes for her. She's wearing a cross expression on her face, blue yes narrowed into slits as she looks the holograph over; impaired vision or simply judgmental, I can't say. She stands from her chair and rounds the corner into the kitchen. "She's thirteen, isn't she?" I can hear her rustling around in the kitchen, banging through cabinets until I hear something pop. "They're too young for the Arena. No one at their ages has ever won before."

"Try not to sound too confident in our Tributes." Liber is frowning at the doorway leading into the kitchen. He turns back to the holograph, to finish watching the ceremony; paying careful mind to the following costumes that follow. "They did do good."

I decide to humor him, even though I truly want to leave the room and go down to the beach; to escape. "They're Career Tributes and pretty. They'll get Sponsors, at the very least."

A look crosses over Liber's eyes, something close to startled. His shoulders visibly perk upwards as he turns himself to face me; analyzing me for a moment before a smile splits across his face. I am displeased by this abrupt stare, so I send him a colder look meant to intimidate him into looking away. He doesn't. Liber's smile evolves into an irritating, little smirk.

" _What_?" I say.

"You said pretty," he says.

"And what is that supposed to insinuate?"

"Do you think Finnick is pretty?"

I slap his shoulder, perhaps with enough intensity to leave a red mark there for a while; it won't bruise, but still. "I don't care. Just shut up and tell me about these other outfits and how you feel about it from a stylistic view, or whatever...just say something."

Liber takes my hint, though he doesn't lose that ridiculous smirk as he goes on to ridicule or compliment the costume that follow. I don't hear him anymore, as my mind has ventured off to the replaying image of Harpee and Finnick in that chariot, gliding so effortlessly across the pale cobblestone. They are both attractive in their own way, but my mother is right; they're young. The young don't survive the Arena, for obvious reasons. They stand against older and brawnier Tributes, with more experience beneath their belts, and as of such the young are usually preyed upon first. They are the easiest, after all.

Although Finnick and Harpee are by no means children, they are still young. Finnick is only fourteen, but he is tall, with lean muscles he has developed from hours upon hours spent in the ocean working with his father. Meanwhile, Harpee is only thirteen, with a scrawny and lanky build. She still has bright freckles, though they are fading with time, but the issue is they maker her look younger. Nonetheless, she has a pretty face and a sharp wit when she can summon it up; perhaps both can charm the Capitol to her support. Finnick, loathe I am to admit it, will undoubtedly have little issue in gaining Sponsors. That is, if he stays smart. _He is smart._

The Mentors must be having the two play to their strengths. Finnick is a naturally boisterous and charming persona, as he is often able to woo a majority of those in the market, and is seen as a heart throb around our school. It will be unbearably simple for him to use those charms to gain sympathy and adoration from the Capitol, as those who play the game of their own self-indulgence often have higher chances of winning. This was the folly Jensen had so many years ago; he thought he could handle it on his own, and died for it. Finnick will be smart enough to know that Sponsors mean a great deal, particularly if he heeds the guidance of the Mentors - especially Rheon. As a strong swimmer, he will stand a greater chance if the Arena is heavily populated with bodies of water, or if he can get his hands on equipment that mirror that of home.

On the flip side of the coin there is Harpee. She looks pretty enough in her dress and her finely applied makeup, but there is no denying the stiff position she carried herself with, or the way her hand mechanically waved to the crowd. I suppose this can be brushed off as bashfulness down the line, but because of this behavior she is nothing more than a shadow beside Finnick. If only for him, she may be able to gain the sympathy of Sponsors, but I'm unsure how far the Capitol's graciousness will extend. After all, they won't waste their resources on lost causes. Unlike Finnick, who is a seasoned fisherman and a fine man of talents, Harpee's gifts are underlined mostly in wit and what budding beauty she has. As far as I have known her, she has never received any sort of combat training and nor has she spent time fishing. She is a fine swimmer, but she mostly skinned the fish and removed their bones from her father's shop; nothing as grand as spear hunting.

Despite this, I want to have faith that Harpee will stand a chance, even if I know by practical standards that her odds are unlikely. Finnick, though...

I sigh.

 _"If I can bring him back here, then I need you to promise you won't Volunteer for the Hunger Games."_

Rheon is not an unreasonable man, but as I hear those words resounding in my head I begin to rethink that notion. It is utterly unreasonable to delude one's self into thinking that they can save the life of one individual, that they can bring them home from an ordeal such as the Hunger Games. I am confident in my father's abilities as a Mentor, as well as the abilities of the others, but I find myself wondering if those words are nothing more than tainted false hope. Do I truly want Finnick back more than I want Harpee? She may have used me as a means of some sort of end, but at the very least I remember her fondly. Finnick claims he is my only true friend, yet my memories are that of contempt. My fond thoughts stem from a future in which he watches me win.

Is that future worth the cost of Harpee's life?

"Don't forget that Neleus asked for your help later today, Lib," Demetra says, somewhere in the distance. "He's been so morose since his son left, he can use the help..."

I look over my shoulder. "It's the way of the tide, mother...the sea takes just as it gives." Sensing her ridiculing stare, I add, "I'll go."

* * *

My mother had not put up much of an argument, as she knew that when my mind was made that there was little to no chance of her ever swaying it. Besides, Liber was happy to have a chance to stay home and watch the events occurring in the Capitol; what little there was for today.

Still, I was not the one that Neleus wanted to have to aid him on the beach, but if I were to be perfectly honest I would confess that my selfish decision to swipe Liber's place had numerous ulterior motives behind it. The first motive is that I didn't want to be in that wretched house anymore, having to listen to the updates on the Tributes, to be forced to be constantly aware that I was not there; that people I care about _are_. It was tedious after a while, and madness is not suited for someone like me. Nonetheless, my other reason for being here stems from the simple matter of wanting to learn more about Neleus Odair. In what little time I have known him, he has been quiet, and has seemingly been a fair father to Finnick. But after witnessing the sheer indifference the day of the Reaping during visitations, as well as his cold, callous words outside the mayor's house, I want to uncover the rest.

To add to that, I _needed_ to get out of my house, and Neleus had the perfect escape for me.

I don't wait long before leaving the house to dare to venture down to the beach side, where the Peacekeepers are far from the mind, and where one can boat and fish in place until nightfall. Spear in hand, I venture to the place where Neleus intends on waiting for Liber, where he will be undoubtedly displeased when I round the corner instead of my brother.

As I do so, I see him standing there, perfectly still, evening out the nets, with a trident lodged in the sand at his bare, dirty feet. His movements as he adjusts is net reminds me eerily of Finnick, and of the simpler days before this, when my largest concerns stemmed from whether or not he was going to play a nuisance in my day. Now that I am standing here, I wonder what type of man I am going to be dealing with today. The quiet, calm businessman my father is associated with, or the cold, distant father.

"Mr. Odair," I call, to bring his attention to me as I descend the path.

Neleus does not even bother to turn to face me. "I asked for your brother, Ms. Rythe. Not you."

"Liber is busy, and I'm a better fisherman that he is, anyway," I say, frowning at the tone he has adopted. _Indifferent_. "Besides, I know Finnick better than he does, so I thought we could talk about him." My bare feet scrape against the sand as I walk to the taller man, rocks and shards of shells stabbing into the soles of my feet. Stopping when I am at an arms length away, I decide to brave a look at his face. He lacks the old, wearying lines of my father, though there is a shallowness evident in his younger gaze. "Do you have a boat, or are we going to wade out into the water?"

It is no secret that Neleus is disappointed I am here instead of my brother, but I suppose he decides that it's not worth the effort to bicker over it since he doesn't fight me on it. His green eyes glance at me for the first time since I made my presence known, sizing me up with a critical stare that had be subconsciously straightening, as if I cared about what this man thought of me. If I were to be honest I would say that I could care less what anyone thought of me, but there is something in Neleus' gaze that makes me feel as though every part of me is being scrutinized.

I remember Finnick once mentioned during school that his father expected the best out of everyone, but I had laughed at the time and said that he must be so disappointed in Finnick, then. He had glared at me in one of the rare instances he was upset with me, then pushed me down into the sand. We were only children at the time, so it was easy to laugh such things off, or to assume Finnick was being overdramatic. Now that I am feeling Neleus' eyes boring into my skin, his critical gaze tightening, I understand. We have not even begun to fish yet and already this man is assuming the worst of me, even though he has seen me fish countless times before with my father. Under his gaze, I find myself feeling inferior.

With a firm jerk of the shoulders in disguise as a shrug, I try to physically brush off those horrible tingles. I will not be made inferior by this man; a fisherman who has never seen strife in his days. My father is a Victor. He survived the Hunger Games against twenty-three others, despite the odds being against him in numerous occasions; it is only his approval I care about. Neleus may try, but I won't let him undermine my own confidence.

Wishing to eradicate the quieted tension, I speak. "Well?"

"No boat. We're going to wade in the water," Neleus answers with a grunt. He averts his gaze from me. Net in hand, he trudges out into the water, but immediately disappears beneath the blue surface. I stand waiting for a moment, wondering if I am supposed to follow after. A minute ticks by, then two. At this point I feel myself advancing forward to ensure the safety of this man, but he has resurfaced. He returns to the shore to retrieve the trident still lodged in the sand. He tests the weight in his hand. He then spends a fair minute looking out towards the water, his eyes calculating the waves as they gently roll onto the sand; the water is quiet today. Without wasting another breath, Neleus trudges back towards the water. "Hurry along, girl. I won't waste my time with you standing around."

To say I am vexed by this man would be an understatement, but I think I do a careful job of hiding it. Clinging tightly to my own spear, I follow after Neleus into the water, feeling the tide curl around my legs as I walk further into the waters. It is as if it is greeting me in an engrossing embrace, truly the most compassionate of gestures I had received since the Reaping.

"Go by the rocks."

I obey Neleus' order. There is a rock formation that extends from the beach in the form of a large, towering height that lowers into the water, acting as a cliff-side into the deeper parts of the sea. I go to that underwater cliff, balancing on my toes as I have trained myself to do. In this position, I can almost imagine my father's boat several yards away, watching me as I held my spear over my head. The difference is I am taller now; not so swallowed up by the sea. The nostalgia of the visions coils around me in a moment of blissful comfort before being aggressively tugged away from me. I curl my toes over the sharper corners of the rocks, in order to awaken myself from such daydreams.

I concentrate on the water as Neleus takes a position not far from me. He is tall and burly, and is able to go deeper into the water without vanishing beneath its surface. I glance at him for a brief moment, noting how in the sun his red hair glows the way Finnick's does, but there was no sense of comforting familiarity; only a bitter taste in my mouth. It should be Finnick standing here alongside his father instead of me, with me being in the chariots; being the Tribute. His life wouldn't be in danger that way. At least if it was me instead of him, I could return back to him knowing he was there waiting for me, but if he doesn't survive the Games -

"No," I say aloud, interrupting my thoughts before they can finish. I refuse to believe that Finnick is going to die. He will survive. He has to. After all, he has the aid of my father by his side, as well as the other Victors, and he has Harpee. Although she is weak-willed and scrawny, at least she is fair company to fill up the days until the Games, and to be his friend in the Arena.

"Did you say something?"

Neleus must have heard me.

I breathe out softly. "No," I say. A moment of silence falls over us, but I won't allow that. I'm not here just to be away from my home and procrastinate until I feel comfortable enough to go back. I'm also here to talk to this man. "Was Finnick okay when you talked to him after the Reaping?" The waves lick up to my waist, with the sea spray catching in my eye, but I make no move to brush it off. Standing a still as I can, I know that I can't let any bodily movement give me away to the fish. My mind, however, is working rapidly. "He seemed off when I talked to him."

Finnick was fine when I talked to him, but Neleus doesn't know that.

Neleus gives me a look. "He was just Reaped," he says. "Unlike you, Ms. Rythe, not everyone are so eager to jump up and join in the Games."

 _Unlike me_. My eyes flicker away from the water, my body mistakenly turning to face Neleus at an easier angle. I watch him for a long moment, as he stands so calmly amidst the water; his green eyes flickering over the surface, peering deeper through it. _Unlike me_. This indicates he knows of my ambition. Granted, I'm not exactly quiet when it comes to how proud I am over my heritage, and how I intend on being District 4's Victor one day, but I never thought he would actually pay attention to it. Why would he even care enough to? He doesn't even seem like the type of man for gossip.

"Finnick told me," Neleus says, as if reading my mind. "He'd laugh over the stupid, little girl who dreamed about being District 4's reigning Victor, some sort of hero; even though you'd just be another number." He turns his head, body remaining still as stone. He must see the anger blooming in my eyes, as the stone-faced expression he wears so frequently shifts into one of wry amusement. "I never understood why he kept talking about you, even though everything he had to say was usually so distasteful."

"Huh, exactly just how distasteful?" I say, glaring at him.

Neleus quietly observes the water for a moment, before plunging the trident deep through the surface. There is a loud splash, as the water sprays across his face, and an even louder one when he hoists the trident above his head to reveal three fish finely impaled together. It gives me no pleasure to admit this, but that was impressive. He stares at the wiggling beasts, until their bodies still into shortened spasms. "He thinks you're a child," he says plainly, not even doing me the honor of _sparing_ me a glance.

But the fact that Finnick sees me as a child is not necessarily surprising, as he has voiced his distaste for me numerous times before. It's just hearing it from another is somehow jarring. To add to that, I am stunned by the fact that he has said anything about me to his father. Do I mean that much that he would take the time to complain about me? I can't really think of a time where I spoke about Finnick to my own family...aside from my complaints, that is.

My jaw clenches. "It's not like I have any glowing praise for him, since he struts around like he's a peacock." I look back down. I can see fish gradually beginning to close in around me; a few at a time, grey and scaly. "But that'll keep him alive during the Games."

"He knows that." Neleus smiles, but it is a condescending smile. "He told me before he left that he knew what he was doing; play the role, be their toy-"

"And get Sponsors."

"Yes. Yes." With careful aim, he hurtles the trident back to the shore. Its tips strike the ground in a hard blow, causing the fishes' corpses to jerk with the movement, as if still alive. Now that his hands are free, he slowly starts to descend deeper into the water, until he is nearly neck deep. "You would know all about that, I imagine; given your father's status."

He turns to look at me this time, green eyes reflecting some sort of...contempt? Before I can get the chance to say anything else, he dives down into the deep water. I stare at the ripples in the water from where he used to be, counting each one out as I count every second long with it. A minute goes by. Then two minutes. _Maybe he drowned_ , I think bitterly.

I have no such luck, however, as he springs back to the surface, with his net in hand. I can see the shiny, grey scales of the fish writing against the dark rope. Those that have come into contact with the surface are in a frenzy to try to flee back into the sea, only to be met by the cold bodies of their brethren or the confines of their snare. Once more, I find myself made reluctantly impressed. There is no denying that Neleus is one of the greatest fisherman in District 4, but this does nothing to remedy his character in my eyes.

Neleus wipes the salt water from his face. "Just because your father was lucky enough to win doesn't mean you're an expert, nor does it mean you have a chance at winning. But then again, maybe you're just putting up some kind of front. You didn't even Volunteer, after all-"

"I couldn't - I...don't talk about stuff you don't know or understand!" I yell, uncaring how many fish are scared away by the loud noise, or how my body angrily turns to face him, rather than at an awkward angle. The splash sounds thunderous against my ears. "You didn't even care that your son was Reaped! He hadn't even _left_ yet and you were already looking for his replacement! At least I care!"

Neleus' eyes are no longer glittering with annoyance; they are tightened with it, mirrored in the hardened clench of his bearded jaw. Those judgmental eyes are boring into me again, recreating the horrible shiver I had previously tried to forget. He makes no move to advance on me, or show any physical signs of anger; he stands still, almost too still.

He makes a soft _tsk_ sound. "I won't pause my life while my son is gone. I don't know if he'll come back-"

"I made my father promise that he would try-"

" _Promises_ mean _nothing_ once you are in the Games, Ceresea. You would do well to remove yourself from whatever fantasy you have in your head, and to remind yourself that reality isn't as easy," Neleus snaps. This is the first time I am hearing his voice raise, and it is just as intimidating as I could have ever imagined. "I don't care what you made Rheon promise, since it may not even bring my son or the girl back. The point is, I can't stop my livelihood. I need to be ready for when he dies to move on, not dawdle around for _nothing_. And just _look_ at yourself. I asked for your brother, yet you come instead, and claim to be the superior fisherman, and yet you've caught nothing. How can you be so sure you can protect our Tributes if you can't even catch a fish? Do you understand?"

My heart pounds loudly within my chest, threatening to break itself from the confinements of my ribcage. I can hear the blood pumping in my ears. I know nothing but blind rage as I throw my spear down into the water, until its tip connects to the rocks beneath. Fish nervously scuttle away from me, as they are made terrified by the abrupt and violent gesture. The spear is lodged in some cracks, so I opt to leave it there for a moment; stuck, fighting against the waves. Moments tick by as I stand there, collecting my shattered anger. Once I have done so, I rip the spear upward and I step away, balancing on the cliff side as I, too, swim against the water. Neleus is watching as I move away from him.

"I understand enough to know I won't being doing business with you, Mr. Odair, and my family won't, either. I'm going to make sure of that." Once my feet are in contact with the dry, crusty sand, I turn to face this man, my hands tightening around my spear until my knuckles blanch. There are so many things I want to say, but the words do not feel fitting. They are all dark and full of malicious intent, meant to tear through him; crumble down that firm pillar until he's nothing but rubble. I know no words will ever sway him. Nothing can sway him. The words I have are for me, not for him. "You don't deserve Finnick. I hope you know that.'

Neleus shakes his head. "You wouldn't be showing Finnick any compassion if it were you standing beside him in the Games," he says. "You wouldn't know, though...since you opted out of Volunteering. Funny how ambition and courage operate in the shell of a coward."

With a sneer, I turn fast and start my way back home. I know there is some semblance of truth to his words, even though I'm trying so desperately not to accept it.

* * *

My wet feet pad across the stained wood floor as I enter my home, the spear still held tightly in my hand. I find myself unable to part with it, as to do so would likely cause my blanch knuckles to all but shatter. I try to loosen my grip as I advance further into the home, but truthfully the effort is in vain. I can hear the sounds of the holograph in the parlor, so I direct myself in there, as if to calm myself. My brother is sitting on the couch, watching every detail unfold. Caesar is speaking, though I truly don't care to hear what he is saying, or how he is glorifying the Tributes. In this moment all I have to care about is what I have to say to Liber.

I break his concentration on the holograph by speaking. "We aren't doing business with Neleus Odair anymore," I say. Liber does not even hesitate as he whips his head around to face me, his pale eyes furrowed together into a mesh of wrinkles; of which are eerily similar to Rheon's. Beneath his stare, I decide to elaborate, since I know full well he is going to ask one way or another. "He thinks Finnick is going to die. He didn't even blink or bat an eyelash when the topic came up...he just accepted it. I'm not going to do business with someone who-"

"I get it."

Liber turns his back to me, to watch the holographs playing out before him; of the grand Capitol and its equally grand attire, and Caesar remarking on it all. Liber watches it all with a mindful gaze, rubbing his jaw as he tries to refocus himself on what had previously ensnared his interest. It was surprisingly easy to capture Liber's interest; similar to how Neleus caught those fish in that net of his earlier. If I were to be blunt, I would confess that I didn't understand his statement of _getting_ what I had to say. What would make it so self-evident? Perhaps he saw some sort of compassion in me. The likelier option is that he presumed he could shut me up by quickly silencing me. _A clever tactic_.

"Dad might not be happy, but it means less work for us," Liber adds.

"I don't care..."

The opinion of my father regarding my choice to exterminate Neleus is irrelevant to me. I'm sure that if he knew my reasoning that he would be somewhat supportive in my crusade. Despite being a colder, stricter man, my father is not a bad father; he truly tries to understand his children. I doubt he would take to Neleus' sheer indifference towards his own son all that well, but I suppose I'll have an answer within the next few week; when Rheon returns. _With or without Finnick..._ or Harpee.

I turn away from Liber, plodding along to the stairs that lead to the upper level of the house. "I'm going to go bathe, and then rest...wake me when all of this is over."

"It'll never be over," Liber calls after me.

* * *

According to Rheon, one of the most critical steps before the Games comes in the form of the Interviews. It is of dire importance to gain popularity with the Capitol early on, through charm, attractive qualities, and so on, as it means the Capitolians would spare their hefty pennies to keep particular Tributes alive. It never ceases to amaze me how utterly shallow the Capitol is, though I can't help but see the logic behind it. It is no different than placing money on the prettiest boat in a race, unknowing which is the fastest yet. In any case, an advantage that Harpee and Finnick will have (aside from the obvious of their charms) is where they come form. The Capitol has always gravitated towards the Careers, that being the Districts of 1, 2, 3, and 4; this advantage alone may help keep them alive. But they need to present themselves in an attractive light to be guaranteed a chance at survival.

The Capitol is shallow, loathe I am to admit it, so they will dwell purely on the outward appearances of their Tributes rather than who they are, or what their prowess is. At least Finnick and Harpee are both pretty, so they can stand a chance based on that, but if they do poorly in the Interviews...then I don't know what will become of them. I try to shake the thoughts off. The Victors are trustworthy. I know they will try to mold their Tributes into the Career-like figures District 4 has been renowned for. But if I were to be honest, I would say I just want them to come back home. I want to apologize to both, to redeem myself next year, or the year after that; to gain forgiveness.

But I know at least one of them is going to die. The worst part of that is that I hope it's not Finnick. Harpee has been more of a friend to me than Finnick ever has, particularly since the boy in question had never been particularly friendly to me, but on the flip side of that, at least he never treated me differently. I wasn't Rheon Rythe's daughter with him. I was Ceres.

My knuckles clench.

The frustration I feel in bouncing back and forth between wishing to support Harpee versus wanting Finnick to live has created new types of friction within my soul. Harpee is my friend, yet in a strange way Finnick is, too. She has used me in the past, even borderline confessing it during my visit to her, whereas Finnick has always been very vocal about how he saw me. I was his friend, and I was her good luck charm. Still, it's hard to overlook years of friendship, but it's even harder to overlook years of ulterior motivation behind said friendship. To make matters worse, I have no one to speak to on the matter. Liber is wrapped up in his own little world whilst my mother is off fretting over my father and tending to the house and her duties. I can't very well talk to Mara, since she hasn't spoken to me at all since the Reaping. And I most certainly can't go to Neleus for _fatherly counsel._

Speaking of the man, it has been a few days since my last encounter with Neleus, so true to my word, I have not been in contact with him since. He has not even bothered to try contacting me or my brother to get help from us. Were it not for my bizarre sense of loyalty to Finnick, I probably would never have dared cut ties with Neleus. But the way he spoke about Finnick was discouraging. It was like he was expendable; a pawn, useless. I may not always like Finnick, but I will be the first to say that he is far from useless. _Even though he makes me want to kill something..._

Harpee and Finnick alike cause me agony, yet I spend hours upon hours pondering over who I want to come back to me; who I want to see as the Victor of District 4. And then I find myself thinking of horrible, horrible things...like maybe it would just be easier if they both died, even if it means Finnick will never see my victory.

Damn it.

I decide that dwelling on my feelings isn't going to change anything, especially given the fact that I have no influence towards my father and the Tributes whilst in the Capitol. I may as well make some good of my time other than moping or clinging to the "what if" part of my day. With this in mind, I decide to leave my place sitting on the front porch of the house to retreat back inside, knowing that I would have likely been called in soon, anyway. Demetra is always so insistent that I watch the Games and participate, even if she doesn't enjoy participating herself. _It's our moral duty as a collective Panem_ , she'd say.

Besides, the Interviews will be starting soon, and there will be hell to pay if I miss it.

When I walk quietly through the main white door, my ears twitch with the sounds of my brother and mother talking in the parlor. Their voices are hushed, but there is no mistaking the edges in them; sharp as razors. Morbid curiosity overcomes me, so I creep from my spot by the door to the wall, where I can better listen in with my ears straining to pick up every whispered words. Surely whatever they have to say has to be of the secretive sort, since they seem to be actively trying to ensure I hear none of it; presuming they still think I'm on the porch.

I hear my mother's voice first, spoken over the sounds of _clicking_. This is likely tapping her nails on the side table. "She shouldn't have cut ties with Neleus," Demetra says. "He may not be the most loving man, but at least he's loyal, and has never done a disservice to Rheon. What the hell was she thinking?"

Liber makes a sighing sound. "She was just doing what she thought was best."

"I think she was letting her crush on Neleus' son get the better of her."

My _what?_

Before I can register what my mother just said, she continues.

"She needs to get over him," Demetra says, in a tone that cuts sharply through the air like a scythe. I can hear her start to pace the length of the room, which is a nervous habit she has developed throughout her years. She pauses for a split second before resuming. "Finnick may not even come back. You know this, right?"

"You don't know that," Liber says, softly. "He could come back, mom. Her friend could come back."

"But if he doesn't come back, then what does that mean for Neleus? He was prepared to adopt you under an apprenticeship. Imagine that, Liber, one of District 4's best fishermen taking you on as his apprentice. You could learn so many things under him. Your father may be good at what he does, but he has his in and out days, and at least Neleus is consistent." I can hear her start walking again, but it's cut off by the sounds of the couch giving a gentle creak. She must be sitting down. "You should talk to him."

"Ceres says Neleus thinks Finnick is going to die. Doesn't that make him a morally questionable parent?"

I hear Demetra scoff. "We're all morally questionable in Panem, Liber. It's the world we live it, but that doesn't mean we stop living in it," she says. Her words make me think back to what Neleus told me on the beach, about how he couldn't stop living just because Finnick was gone. Maybe my mother and Neleus had been talking. "I'm not going to erase your chance to work for someone like Neleus just because your sister doesn't like him. If Finnick comes back, wonderful, but if he doesn't then Neleus will need someone to fill in the gap. It's better for everyone this way."

Liber is quiet.

My brother and I may have our moments of conflict, in which we butt heads harder than two crabs dueling on the sea's shore, but if there is one thing I know for certain it is that he is loyal. He may not always agree with what I have to say, though at the very least he will trust me in my judgment. He keeps my secrets. Demetra, however, is loyal solely to Rheon. She may love her children, but I know deep down that she would rather sacrifice us than lose her beloved husband, and would even turn us against each other to protect the latter.

"She has her reasons, I'm sure. She wouldn't just cut off ties because of some...some...crush," Liber says to her. "I don't even think she likes Finnick that way, I mean...I know he d-"

"It doesn't matter. Tomorrow morning, you will to go Neleus and you will apologize on her behalf, and you will ask for your apprenticeship back. Understood?" He must nod, since I hear no vocal response. But the answer pleases her, given the softness in her voice. "Good. Now go retrieve your sister. The Interviews will be starting soon. And don't say a word about this discussion."

I can hear Liber advancing to the doorway, where I am hidden on the wall beside it. I wait for him instead of hastily scuttling back to the doorway, to feign ignorance in the ordeal. He sees me as soon as he steps through the door way. His blue eyes stare intently into my own for a long moment. Saying nothing, he continues forward until he reaches the main door, where I hear the familiar call of him saying my name to the wind, inviting me back inside to watch the Interviews. He turns not long after, his footsteps all but ghosting the floor as he returns to the wall where I stand. We lock eyes. His gaze preaches of hundreds upon hundreds of apologies, whilst mine is a cold, barren wasteland.

 _At least you're loyal,_ I mouth.

Liber shrugs, before retreating back into the room.

I follow after, as my mother turns the holograph on to display Caesar Flickerman giving the introductions to the budding Interviews, the excited frenzy of the audience nearly swallowing the bright orange man whole, were it not for his matched enthusiasm. I can hardly hear the annually spoken words he is repeating, as I find myself mechanically taking a seat on the luxury divan on the left side of the main seating. The argument between my mother and brother is still fresh in my mind. My mother seems to be under the assumption that I am some flighty, little child driven by some _fictitious_ infatuation with Finnick - which is untrue! I don't have a crush on Finnick, I don't. Why would I ever be interested in the boy who used to throw seaweed at my hair? I'm _not_. My mother is just trying to find excuses to invalidate my choice in cutting ties with Neleus. Of course, as someone who shares Neleus' lack of parental affection, I can't say I'm surprised she is unable to understand why I cut him off. What kind of father would dare to replace his son so soon? To dismiss him?

My heart races.

When the day comes that I am Reaped or I Volunteer for the Games, will my mother so eagerly replace me? Will she find a younger and littler girl to take up the mantle as the fisherman in her home? Will I be so easily replaced in the house cleaning, cleaning the fish, the removal of the fishes' bones? Am I as expendable as her dearly beloved Neleus' son? Rage seems to course through my veins, fueling the inner fire within me that flourishes and scalds against my skin. I am not invalid. My decision to cut Neleus off was a _good_ one. There was no such blind ulterior motive behind it. It was an act of sacrifice, of moral -

Morals can exist in this world, I decide. I don't have to forfeit my morals against Neleus simply because my mother thinks morals are dead. If she is truly so convinced, then maybe she ought to take her self-righteous shovel and dig up into the earth until she finds the grave of morals. Or better yet, use the grave for herself. At least then she will be doing something.

My eyes flicker to the holographs. The boy from District 1 - a boy named Saph - steps onto the stage, clad in a beautiful sapphire blue suit that compliments his golden blonde hair and bright blue eyes. His smile is pearly. _Charming_. He will get Volunteers. I flicker my eyes to my mother, who is sitting quietly in her seat beside Liber. _Do you see corruption in his morals, mother?_

Liber shifts in his seat, indicating that he can feel the tension. He knows that I likely heard almost everything they had to say, so he probably knows that I have current hardened feelings towards our mother. With this in mind, he breaks the tension by talking. "It won't be long before Finnick and Harpee. This is the big moment, you know?" he says, looking at me. "I know they're going to do well. The Mentors are smart."

"If they don't impress tonight then I doubt they're impress later on," Demetra says. "They need to wow the Capitol."

"They need to survive," I add, knowing that Liber wants me to.

We stay quiet for the reminder of the interviews.

I concentrate on Saph as his interview is finalized, as he smiles broadly at Caesar, then elegantly turning his head to smile at the people in the audience. He is charming to a fault, with the way he waves his hand, and how he will sometimes turn and smile at each individual person. He treats them as if they are his adoring crowd, as if he truly, truly cares. The audience eat him up, but when he goes, they rejoice even more over the blonde haired beauty he came with. The girl from District 1 is named Karina, and she is just as beautiful as her name. Her hair falls in golden cascades down to her waist, with a bright green eyes and a pretty green dress to match. It seems like their stylist was very enthused about color coordinating their attire to reflect their eyes. She is just as charming as Saph, if not more so. In the end, her applause is louder than his. _District 1 is in for one hell of a treat_.

District 2 is the masonry district, so the stylist opts to decorate the girl in steel-like clothes that look unbearably heavy and uncomfortable; as if trying to make her look like a giant square thing of iron. Her name is one I don't catch, but I know I already pity her. She smiles, plays her role, but lacks the same charisma as the others did. The boy, dressed similarly, does the same. He is charming and suave, with a more natural sense about him than the girl had. He smiles effortlessly, makes jokes with Caesar, and by the end I can hear the girls in the audience dying. _District 2, at least for the boy, will be fine_.

District 3, being the technology district, naturally means its Tributes will likely be geniuses. The boy is named Deitin, and he is the youngest I have seen thus far. While the others are evidently older, roughly sixteen to eighteen, Deitin is clearly at least thirteen. His voice is still course, yet to fully crack, and he is gangly in stature. This reminds me of Liber, thus creating a protective sensation as I look at him. He is a handsome young boy, who engages in eloquent conversation with Caesar. As it were, Deitin Volunteered for the Games, for the sheer purpose of being the Hunger Games' youngest Victor. _A boy after my own heart_. The girl that follows is older than he is, with curly hair and flashing eyes. Her name is Sorola. She is just as bright as Deitin, though her ambition stems from humbly Volunteering for the honor of her District. _District 3 will be fine_.

My heart begins to tremble. I can feel my knuckles clenching around the fabric of my pants. I can all but hear my blood rushing through my veins, as I wait in heavy anticipation for Caesar to say their names, to announce them; to show them off to the world.

"May we welcome District 4's lovely Tribute, Harpee Howe!" Caesar calls.

Liber hums beside me, catching my attention for a brief, unsettling moment. "Here's hoping she has nothing bad to say about you...huh, sis?"

* * *

 **(a/n): BOOM CLIFFHANGER. Kind of. Will Harpee drag Ceres in the mud? Will Finnick woo and charm? WILL I EVER GET TO CERES ACTUALLY VOLUNTEERING FOR THE GAMES LIKE MY PLOT DESCRIPTION SAYS? My answer? Read the next chapter when it comes out. The next chapter will include the Interviews and the actual Hunger Games, so hopefully this plot point will end there, but if not then it'll just carry for one more chapter after that. And then we get to the good stuff. Oh, before I forget, thank you so much for the reviews! It is so encouraging to know that someone likes my brain child! When I was a writer back in my pre-teen days, I would reply to the reviews I got, so I think I'm going to go back to that old timely tradition of mine! Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Please, favorite, follow, and review!**

 _ **review replies**_

 **Laure: Thank you so much! Ceres is one of my current favorite OC's (I have more I plan to write for, but at the moment she takes the cake). To put simpy, she's my problematic fav. Hopefully you like this update. :)**

 **MaxineNixZhong: Aww, thank you so much! "KEEP ON WRITING" is honestly the best kind of compliment I can receive, so thank you.**

 **Guest: Aw, thank you! I love Finnick stories too, hence why I had to try my hand at my very own! :D**

 **Guest: MY QUEEN. Thank for reviewing my wee, lil story. 3**

 **SS Raven: Oh, thank you so much! My soul sings every time someone likes my writing!**


	5. Four: better to leave it unspoken

**(a/n): This will be the final chapter about Finnick's experience in the Games. After this, we are going to get some real tension between Finnick and Ceres...and just you wait until the next chapter...when shit really gets real.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOUR**

 _better to leave it unspoken_

* * *

I feel compelled to state the obvious, so I shall...Harpee is more than likely going to rub my name into the dirt, regardless of what the Mentors have told her to do. After all, why _wouldn't_ she take this opportunity? I had spent years upon years bragging about how I was going to be a part of the Hunger Games, yet on the day of the Reaping I didn't even bother Volunteering - for my own friend, no less. Harpee Volunteered where I should have, but to my defense I would have willingly taken Mara's place. The only issue comes in the form of Finnick...

Clearing my head, I put my focus back on the matter at hand. Harpee has stepped into the lights and cameras, smiling sweetly to the audience as she blows them kisses that seem almost too rehearsed, and takes an elegant seat beside Caesar. She's wearing what I can only describe as a fluffy cupcake. It is a bright shade of blue with ruffles that fall to her ankles, thus allowing for her glittering heels to be seen by all. Her hair has been fluffed up and left to drape over her left shoulder; showing off the least freckled shoulder.

Caesar smiles as Harpee settles into her seat. "So, Harpee, being from District 4, I imagine you're a very good swimmer."

"Well, in our District you're practically born in the water, so if you can't swim you're just shark bait," Harpee giggles. Her smile is tight, but at least her voice sounds smooth and natural. _Keep it up, just avoid talking about me_. "Luckily for all of us, I am a good swimmer, though I prefer to set campfires on the beach and watch the water at night. It makes for a very calming and romantic atmosphere, you know?"

"Oh, _romantic_!" Caesar croons, eyebrows rising high above his forehead in interest. "Is this indicating there's a special someone at home?"

Harpee flutters her eyelashes, then presses her index finger to her lips. "If I win the Games I'll tell you," she chirps.

This is the first time I've ever heard of Harpee being interested in someone. She's had crushes before in the past, but as far as I have ever known she hasn't been with anyone - hell, I can't even think of a time I caught her looking at someone like that. But I have to remind myself that I am - was - her good luck charm...her Token...so maybe she never felt compelled to tell me her deepest and darkest secrets.

Alternatively, this could be a ploy set by the Mentors to help her gain sympathy through the promise of romance. After all, if there is anything the Capitol adores, it's the fantastical flights of fancy that their Tributes bring.

Caesar cackles at Harpee's response. "Oh, how devilish of you to leave us in suspense!" He collects himself enough to resume to the next question. "So it is my understanding that you Volunteered for the Games, in a very beautiful moment, for your best friend. Is this correct?"

Harpee's smile softens into the semblance of a melancholic frown. Just as quickly she catches her error and offers that fake, twisted smile again, though it doesn't even begin to graze her eyes. "Yes. My best friend, Mara...she was Reaped," she says. Each word she utters is slow and meticulous, as she is seemingly spending a gross amount of time on each syllable, to perfect it; to ensure everything comes out as perfect. She glances out at the audience with those soft eyes. _Yes. Yes. Sympathy. Good_. "I couldn't let my friend die like that, not when I could stop it."

I feel something stab into my chest. _Damn you, guilt_.

Caesar reaches out and places his hand on her knee. "You did a very brave thing, young lady. Did she visit you before you left?"

A momentary silence falls across the interview. Harpee's eyes lower to the ground, her lips curling inward in an expression I know all too well. Whenever Harpee would find herself in a state of discomfort of unease, she would often stare at the ground or scrunch her face up, just as she is doing now. The display seems to be one of mere emotion to the blind eye, but I can see well enough to know its true meaning.

"She did." Harpee smiles up at Caesar. "She told me that if I don't win...that she will never forgive me. I can't very well die knowing my best friend is going to have an eternal judgment on me, can I?"

Liber makes a sound beside me. "She's good," he muses.

I mull over Harpee's words for a moment. Thus far she has made no mention of me, the friend who betrayed her and Mara, and threw them both to the wolves, but I know that can change in an instant. I am still sitting tightly in place, my hands wringing together on my lap. Liber is able to judge Harpee with a critical eye, whilst I am in a disarray of frazzled nerves. Harpee can do serious damage in this interview towards me if she wants to. She can run my name through the dirt; title me a coward. None of it would necessarily matter if my father weren't a Victor or if I didn't want to join in the Games, but because both are all too true then things are made all the more dire. What _would_ the Capitol think of me if they knew?

My hands are quivering now. Eyes closing, I try to find peace in the idea that it would bring Harpee no good to smother my name. After all, she is already admired by the Capitol and Panem for her heroic sacrifice in taking her _best friend's_ place in the Hunger Games. What more could be possibly added by infusing me into the mix? I imagine it would make her sound petty, but then again, when has the Capitol ever cared about such details? If anything, they may live for the drama - crave it like a shark to fresh bait. My eyes flash open, a sense of dread coursing through my veins, and I feel like for a split second I am drowning. It is not nearly the same magnitude of pain I felt when Finnick was Reaped, though it is strong all the same.

Harpee is still smiling at Caesar.

 _This could be me...then I would have nothing to worry about_. The thought weaves its way through my head, all but whispering seductively in my ear; taunting me in such a way that my heart races faster. I can all but see myself where she is sitting, clad in the same dress, making banter with Caesar, and gaining the love and adoration of those around me. That could have been me, were it not for Finnick.

Caesar takes Harpee's hand and kisses it. "And so you shall hope," he says, standing up. She follows the movement. "Harpee Howe, of District 4!"

The crowd roars with applause for her. She smiles at them, her eyes all but sparkling as she spins elegantly (dress resembling a curling wave in this moment) and then is led off of the stage. She maintains a sense of decorum as she struts away, not even budging in her effortless stride. The rehearsed movement is one that seems to gain the approval of the audience, for they cheer for the girl from District 4. But anyone who truly knows Harpee would notice how her hands were twitching as she walked away, indicating a ferocious tidal wave of nerves.

"She did well," Liber says again.

I swallow.

Caesar immediately settles back into his bombastic nature as he eagerly and enthusiastically introduces the next in his long line of interviews. I feel my teeth tighten on either side of my lower lip, sealing it in place as they graze against its surface. The taste of blood will be inevitable, but at the moment I can't bring myself to really care about that. The fabric of my pants are tightened around my fingers, my nails threatening to cut through it, and my fingers turning a fair shade of white. It ached my ego to see Harpee on that stage, being cheered for, and praised by those around her, yet it bruised my heart to see my _friend_ in a predicament where I could have easily been. But if I am to be honest, I would say that I don't know how to feel as I see Finnick led on to greet Caesar.

I have known Finnick all my life, with him being there everyday of school, and him being there on the beach. It seems as though every distinct memory I have in my head somehow features Finnick, whether it is in the foreground or background, yet none of them bring me any sense of melancholy in a way that seeing Harpee and remembering the good times does. As I look at Finnick's smiling face, I am reminded of the times he smiled at me here. _This_ smile is a fake one, but the one I know was so real.

I used to hate seeing him smile at me.

Lips parting before the skin can break, I allow myself to look Finnick over properly. He is wearing a teal suit with designs meant to resemble that of fish scales, as the threads are silver and glisten in the light. He has a devilish smile upon his lips. _The girls in the audience all but swoon, no doubt_. Finnick flashes everyone in the audience his fair grin, his hand in the air as he waves at each and everyone, with his free hand in Caesar's.

"Finnick Odair!" Caesar says, in his usual cackle. "You've been quite the heartthrob of this year's Games!"

Finnick shrugs his shoulders slowly, his smile morphing into an irritating smirk. _I always hated that smirk_. "What can I say?" he all but purrs, his eyes briefly flashing over the audience again. "It's easy to be charming towards those who have welcomed me with such kind and opened arms."

I make a sound, not quite a grunt, or a snarl, or a scoff.

Caesar takes a seat, with Finnick following his movement. "Well, it's easy to be welcoming to someone as charming as yourself," he says, resting his fingers under his chin as he offers the _Tribute_ an amused grin. "So I take it you like the Capitol, then?"

"I do," Finnick says. "It's not quite the same as home, but you know...how often does a guy get to see someplace like this? The only shame is I don't get to see all of it in its glory." He does a face that briefly resembles a pout - _I want to hit it off of his face -_ and earns swoons from those in the audience. "If I win the Games, maybe you would be so kind as to help me get a tour around here. I'd love to bring some of these clothes home."

Caesar's brow arches. "Infatuated with our clothes, are you?" he cackles. "Looking to impress someone?"

"Looking to be the most well-dressed man in District 4 doesn't mean I'm trying to impress someone," Finnick says, with a playful _tsk_. "Besides, I _always_ impress."

"That you do, Finnick," Caesar agrees, with a firm nod. "You most certainly wowed all of us during the chariot ceremony, and though I would _love_ to discuss your incredible stylist and their work, I would much rather ask what everyone here has likely been thinking..." He leans forward slightly, as if he is about to whisper a secret. The audience sits in stunned anticipation as they await for his query. "Is there a special _girl_ in your life, Finnick?"

Finnick is quiet for a moment. His smile never wavers, though I can see it lose its natural, bright luster as his eyes flicker across Caesar's face. In the closeup on him, I can clearly see that he is deep in thought, with his fingers dancing over his knee. What kind of answer is he gouging in his head? How much effort could it really take to think up an answer to that? Finnick has many admirers in the school, so I can only imagine him trying to pluck out some random name to make some random girl's heart soar. Alternatively, it could be he is using the suspense to his advantage, as a means of keeping the audience on their toes as they eagerly await on every sacred word. Whatever the case may be, I notice that my palms are aching, and I quickly retract my nails from them. There is a tight and searing sensation that ripples through me that I can't describe. Rather, I don't want to describe it.

When Finnick breaks the silence, it feels as though he may as well have dropped glass onto a marble floor. His face twists into that usual smirk of his, one brow arched in almost a challenge above his head, and his own fingers curling under his chin to mirror Caesar. "Are you trying to flirt with me, Caesar?"

Caesar cackles again. "Well, I know some who would want to," he says right back. "But tell us about the heartthrob's heartthrob!"

Finnick opts out of a long and weighty silence as he did with his previous answer. "I have someone in District 4," he says, earning a gaggle of swoons and distressed sounds from the audience members. He _has_ someone? I mean, it's no surprise, technically speaking, since the girls in our school were so infatuated with him, but I'd never seen anyone with him. And Finnick doesn't seem like the guy who gets crushes. "She's a bit of a spitfire and one hell of a fisherman, and you know, I made her a promise that I would come back." His smirk returns, though it lacks any sense of romantic intrigue, or passionate feelings; it is purely...cocky. My veins feel chilled. "I'm not going to break my promise before I have the chance to tell her how I feel."

There's a gentleness in Caesar's eyes as he listens to Finnick's words. It doesn't look staged or rehearsed, as the man usually appears to be; it all looks so genuine. "Now could be your chance," he says, gesturing to the camera. "You could tell her."

"I'd rather tell her myself," Finnick says, his gaze briefly falling upon the camera, and for a split second our eyes locked. I know it means nothing, as he can't see me back, but I can't deny the shock that jolts through me. I try to rationalize it, but I can't. Finnick smiles that horribly irritating half-smile of his. "But what I will say is that when I _win_ , that I'm going to remind her of how I survived everyday."

 _Remind. Remind. Remind._ My eyes tighten as Finnick's smile flashes horribly into the camera, to Caesar, to the audience, and just to anyone who is willing to look. My mind is racing as I try to make sense out of what he just said. As far as my knowledge goes, Finnick doesn't have a sweetheart, and it's not like he'd come to me to spill the details of his crushes. Yet my head is racing with the names and faces of the girls I've seen him smile and look at, but none of them _fit_. Remind. It's that word that rings in my ears, taunting me in an endless loop. The truth is hanging over my head like a heavy banner, waving itself madly in an attempt to latch onto my attention, but I can't let myself take hold of it. It's proving to be difficult.

Deep within my bones, I know that Finnick is talking about me. I want to believe he is talking about someone else, but I know it's me. He said that if he came back from the Games that he would be my new best friend, of which is a promise I tried not to give thought to. To add to this, it is his intent to forever rub his victory in my face. _This_ was the ringer that gave away. He would never let me live it down.

All of this makes fine and good sense, but why would he refer to me in some kind of romantic way? Is this supposed to be real, or is he just trying to cook up some kind of show for the Capitol? The worst part of it is that I'm not sure which I would prefer.

Caesar's voice cuts through my thoughts like a knife. "I hope you get the chance to tell her," he says, reaching to shake Finnick's hand. "Best of luck, Finnick." The two stand together, with Caesar raising their hands up into the air. "Finnick Odair, of District 4!"

 _When you come home I am going to kill you, Finnick Odair_ , I think, as I watch him exit the stage. My eyes are stinging now. _This is my promise to you_.

* * *

It's been a week since the Interviews, and in that week I've avoided spending time in my home as much as humanly possible. I needed a distraction, something to pull me away from the tremendous guilt that weighs heavier and heavier on me each day revolving around Harpee, and the confusing thoughts that fill my head whenever I think about what Finnick said. So I decided the day after the Interviews to go back to Neleus. Truthfully, when I did this, I expected to be met with a door in my face or a cruel remark against me or my family, but Neleus did none of this. He instead told me to fetch my spear and net and to get back to work. And since then, I have been spending my days either fishing with Neleus or in town scaling the fish or crushing the crustaceans, as the large screen in the center of the square, for all to see, plays the events of the Games.

The Hunger Games began a week ago, as I watched from my place in front of Neleus' home, observing as the twenty-four Tributes were lined in a circle around the Cornucopia. This is otherwise known as the _bloodbath_. There were backpacks, weapons, and supplies laid out across the large, metal base. My father says that the Cornucopia gets richer with sweeter items the deeper you go inside of it, but the dangers intensify. When I watched two days ago, I had felt myself clench in place as fish guts spilled around me, as I was blindly cutting into a large Redeye. Five of the Tributes died in the Cornucopia, though I couldn't say which. But what I can say is that Finnick and Harpee survived. When it came time for them to run, Harpee ran as far from the Cornucopia as possible and into the woods, whilst Finnick stupidly launched himself into the heart of the Cornucopia. By some sheer miracle, he managed to obtain two backpacks - one smaller than the other, but that doesn't matter - and even managed to snag a hatchet from the heart of the beast.

He had killed one Tribute on his way out by lodging the hatchet into their head, and then promptly racing in the same direction Harpee had gone. The prodding the weapon took to be removed from the split head was ghastly to behold. I would be lying if I said I didn't feel my blood go cold as I watched Finnick crack open the head of a Tribute no younger than him, without even a second thought. There was no bloodcurdling anger in his eyes, or bloodthirsty smiles; just stone-cold concentration. It was as though he was back on the beaches of District 4, fishing alongside his father. I didn't sleep well that night, I must confess, but then again, I haven't been sleeping at all lately. I am a beginning to wonder if I am slowly descending into madness.

Regardless of what the case might be, it has been a week since the Hunger Games starter, since the Cornucopia, and neither of District 4's Tributes are dead. I suppose this should count for something to ease my mind, but it's hard to find any ease when I spend every waking day in the town square; scaling fish, watching the Games, and then returning home late at night to watch it there. It's a vicious cycle.

As it were, I am currently sitting outside of the Odair home and shop. The shop inside sells the catchings that aren't given to the Capitol, with the upstairs being part of the Odair home. I have never been upstairs, but I can only imagine it looks in a similar fashion to the lightness of the shop. The town that it resides in, called Halycon, is large and open, with cobblestone streets dusted in sand, and fair, colored buildings with architectural designs mirroring patterns of the sea. The colors of the building range from a lightly dusted blue to a brighter shade; depending on the age of the respective buildings. Mayor Eyphra often says that the buildings are going to be painted over one day. The square itself is large and open, with shops and markets, each one bustling with activity today. But most of the attention by the patrons aren't on what they're buying or doing, but rather on the Games as they progress.

I am sitting in the shade in front of the shop, with a table in front of me, and buckets on either side of me. I am currently stabbing through the hardened shells of bright red crabs, to get to the meat that I pry away from the broken shells and throw into the bucket to my left. The bucket to my right is reserved for the broken shells. Neleus and I went out fishing before dawn, and somehow were somehow able to catch a plethora of crabs and lobsters in our nets. I'm not sure where our luck came from, but I'm not going to question it at this point.

I stab my knife deep into the belly of the crab, hearing the sickening crack as I hear a canon go off in the square. It is not from the town itself, but rather from the large screen in the center of it. I don't need to look up to know what's happened. When a Tribute falls, a canon goes off to signal their death. This is done so the Tributes know how many are left.

I glance up for a moment, watching as the boy from District 1 bashes in the brains of the boy from District 10. I lower my eyes back down again, and I crack the shell open.

I start to count in my head. Five dead in the Cornucopia. Three dead within the week. One dead today. _Fifteen left_.

Neleus steps out from the white door of the shop to meet me outside. There is a holograph in his shop so patrons can watch inside, but sometime he steps outside to watch with me. I'm unsure if he does this to sit in my company (since I seldom go inside), or to simply get a break from the smell of fish and seaweed inside.

He stands off to the side from my table, green eyes staring up at the screen as it flashes away from the murder and bloodshed instead to the hiding, hunting, or running Tributes. He says nothing for a moment as I drop the meat into the chilled bucket, as I throw the discarded shells aside into the other.

"Finnick's still alive?" he asks.

"He is."

"Still with your friend?"

"Yes."

Neleus nods once, then retreats back inside. This is about the extent of our usual conversations. We are by no means close to one another, but at the very least we're above the fight we had weeks prior - which, in my case, he only provoked. In any case, we speak as minimal as possible, and I help as much as I humanly can until he has to retire for the night, and I have to go home. It's a mutually beneficial agreement.

An hour must go by, as I sit there, breaking into the shells and tearing out the meat, until I see my gaze drifting upward to watch the screen again. I hear voices that draw my attention back upward, ones that I recognize in a way that makes my chest constrict. I see Finnick and Harpee on the screen in the square, walking alongside each other through the tall and dark trees. Harpee's curly auburn hair is matted, with scratches lining across her freckled face, and her lips are dry and cracked. She has the smaller backpack on her shoulders, with something in her hand - it looks to be a compass. This either came from the backpack or a gift from a Sponsor. Finnick, meanwhile is carrying the hatchet in his hand, while he carries the backpack on his opposing shoulder. Much like Harpee, his face is scratched, but he looks less worn for wear.

I sit back for a moment, watching as the two walk alongside each other through the rural woods. District 4 doesn't really have broad assortment of trees, at least not in the nature of the Arena. This is foreign territory for them, but I can't help but notice upon further inspecting that they are following what looks to be a stream. I find myself reflecting back to the boy who died years ago - a boy named Jensen - who had been drowned by District 2's winner, Cato. But Finnick and Harpee aren't so stupid as to repeat the mistakes of past Tributes. I'm sure they have a plan. They have to.

"If we keep going this way we should come up to water soon," Finnick says, in a quiet voice.

Harpee nods. "But won't they _suspect_ us to go that way?" she asks, in an equally low tone. "District 4's Tributes going near water seems a bit cliche, doesn't it?"

Finnick shrugs. "More than likely, but it'll put us closer to our element, and closer to fresh water." He glances up at the sky for a moment, peering through the collection of branches that cobweb across the sky; blocking it from view, based on what I can see. He raises his hand to shadow his eyes. He has that contemplative look on his face I never thought much about before; the one he used when he was making nets, or gouging the sunrise or sunset, or studying me as I fished. I miss that gaze.

With a sigh, Harpee stops. "I need to rest."

Finnick shakes his head. "We can rest once we get more upstream. I have a bad feeling about this place."

Harpee sighs again, and follows after him.

I look down at the dead crab in my hand, with the knife in the other. I stab through its belly again for good measure.

* * *

Four days go by. Three dead. Twelve left. Harpee and Finnick are alive.

I try not to think about the close calls, like the arrow flying inches away from Harpee's temple, or Finnick narrowly eluding the sword nearly impaling his gut. I instead try to console myself with the positives, that being that Finnick has become far more popular than I could have ever guessed. Everyday there is a new Sponsor dedicated to him, specifically for him; food, medicine, and so on. Harpee has only received one for her exclusively, but at least Finnick is kind enough to share. In the midst of this, I try not to let my ego take hold of me as Finnick is adorned in glorious gifts, because...at least he's alive. At least Harpee is alive.

That's all the matters to me. I just try to focus on that rather than the reality that only one is going to come out.

I feel a hand latch less than gently onto my arm, so I jerk myself away from it and out of my train of thought. Neleus is watching me closely with those piercing green eyes, evenly matching my long stride as we make our way back to Halycon. "You need to relax, girl. If you stiffen yourself anymore, then you may as well become a paddle."

Neleus and I are on speaking terms, but this isn't to say we're two best friends now. Casting an irritated scowl in his direction, I quicken my pace and find myself wishing I had stayed in the water; to rest, to float. "I'm tired," I snap back. "I haven't been sleeping well, so excuse me if I'm a little cranky."

"You're not cranky." Neleus cocks his brow. "Do you think he'll die?"

I shrug. "I don't know," I confess, as I feel the sand start to fade into cobblestone as the path to Halycon becomes clear. I usually make this walk barefoot, as it is far easier to do so than carry shoes around with me. My feet are tough as leather at this point, anyway. "He has a lot of Sponsors - daily, too. Maybe he can outlive everyone else by off of what they have to give him alone."

"Even if it means your friend dies?"

He must take my silence as an answer, since he keeps talking.

"I don't blame you, girl."

"She's my friend." He's staring ahead, but I know his eyes are briefly flickering to glance at me, as if to study and analyze my every little reaction as if to take note of it. His gaze is so analytical. It's unnerving. "I don't want her to die."

"Only one lives-"

"You don't have to remind me," I say, in a low tone. "He's your son. You should be focused on him."

Neleus makes a sound, one that's sharp and cuts through me so deeply I feel myself visibly wince. He stops in his tracks, then with such swiftness he reaches out and latches onto my shoulder to stop me, too. I turn fast to glare at him, but his glare is deeper. Although dawn is barely creeping over the sky, I can still see the glowing intensity in his eyes, and the way his lips curl into an angered look.

For a split second, I expect him to lay a hand against me. I don't know why this thought crosses my mind, as I've never been hit maliciously before or have seen Neleus do anything like that, but in this moment I feel myself stiffen rigidly in place.

Instead of a fist, he raises his finger and points at me. "Don't patronize me. Despite what you may think, I love my son," he bites out. "I may not be the most coddling father, or the most loving, but don't you dare think I don't worry about my son every night." He leans closer, his words sharper. "He is all I have left of the woman I loved. Unlike you, he is the only family I have. You can't even _imagine_ what it is like to see your only son in the Arena, practically a lamb for the slaughter - to have to watch him...to have to watch him and know he might not make it out alive. I may sympathize with your friend, girl, but I won't lie and say I hope she comes back. I want my _son_."

My blood is chilled at Neleus' display. I've never seen him speak or act this way where Finnick was concerned. The sheer indifference I usually saw has suddenly been replaced by passionately driven love and a protective nature I find to be intimidating. I swallow my nerves, allowing myself a moment to recover before I speak back to him. "I never said I didn't want Finnick back...I just-"

"Just sour over what he had to say in the Interview?"

"What does _that_ have to do with it?"

Neleus' jaw clenches. "He was talking about you, we both know it, so don't even bother to deny it," he says, quietly. "He mentions you throughout his Interview, and yet never once mentions the father who raised him alone. Imagine that, Ceresea."

We exchange no other words as we make our way into town, even though my heart is hammering and my blood is boiling. I let him quicken his stride as to walk ahead of me, since it allows me time to try to refocus my expression back into its neutral setting, rather than the ugly, upset look it wears now. I've been angry since the Reaping, but lately that anger has been subsiding into worrisome regret. Neleus, however...after seeing that, I can safely say he's overcome with it.

We make it to Halycon as the the sky starts to turn a brilliant shade of gold, casting a fair glow over the town as it bubbles to life. Neleus makes it into his shop way ahead of me, so I decide to lag behind a bit more to watch the Games on the screen. As it were, Harpee and Finnick were currently for us to see, both looking cleaner than they have in a few days. Their wet hair is an indication that they have found the source of the stream. They are sitting before burnt sticks, with a cooked fish's remains evident in their hands. They've been hunting. Staying alive. But beside Finnick is a large box that he is currently toying with, peeling away the layers in order to unlock what I believe to be another Sponsor.

"What is it?" Harpee asks, as she picks the meat off of the fish's bones. She chews slowly, as if to savor every bite. "Another gift for Mr. Popular?"

Finnick chuckles. "Maybe it's-" He cuts himself off, with a noticeable look of astonishment in his eyes as he stares into the belly of the box. Seconds tick by of still silence.

"Well? What is it?"

Slowly, Finnick reaches inside, and with careful hands retracts a trident. Now, we have many tridents in District 4, though I would be lying if I said they were _common_. They're mostly used by those who have more money to spend; the higher class. Neleus owns one, but it is rustic and old, and I imagine that it is not in the same shape it used to be. But the one that Finnick holds now is truly a masterpiece. It is a beautiful shade of gold - hell, maybe it's real gold - with excruciating detail put into every solitary corner of it; every tip, every curve. It all but glows in the light as Finnick raise it up. It is large, too, but not so large that he can't handle it.

To put simply, it is truly a work of art. And undoubtedly expensive.

Finnick is more well-liked than I thought.

Harpee's jaw drop, nearly spilling the chewed fish in her mouth. She makes haste to swallow it. "That's...amazing," she says, gaping at it. "It sure beats the hatchet you've been using." She gestures to the weapon at his belt. "You could probably take everyone out with that, especially given with your experience back home."

"My father uses a trident to fish," he says, smiling as he weighs the trident in his hand. He stands up, so that he can properly maneuver it around his body; lift it, twist it, and so on. The smile on his face is surprisingly warm, though I find myself worrying that he is distracting himself. "Sometimes he'd let me use it."

"I know," Harpee says, smiling back. "Mara used to watch you...and Ceres, too."

I find myself going red as Harpee mentions my name. _What in the hell is she doing?_

Finnick has the audacity to smile. "Admiringly, I assume?"

"Everything you do earns admiration," Harpee chuckles, as she rips a piece of meat from the fish again. "I guess that's why everyone loves you so much."

Finnick sets the trident at his feet, as he holds the hilt of it. "Not everyone," he says, with his smile softening, and his eyes glistening with something I've never seen before. _I don't like it. I don't like this._

"If you win it might change," Harpee says, noticing Finnick's change. _What are they talking about?_ "You have a lot going for you."

"Don't sell yourself short. You've got the same-"

"I don't have the same anything as you...except for maybe one thing, and that thing isn't going to be appreciated. You know that. But I mean it. If you win, you're going to go back there and be met with so much praise, and maybe you'll actually get the praise you want." She goes quiet, enough for her eyes to flutter as they start to moisten. "We both know I'm not going to make it out of this."

"Don't do that," he says, his tone matching her soft one, but it carries a firm determination to it. "I told her that I'd-"

"I appreciate it." Harpee stands up, stretching out her arms as she does so. With a sigh, she throws her head a back, and stares up at the sky for a moment. She's quiet, leaving Finnick to simply examine his newly gifted weapon. With a slow turn, Harpee faces Finnick, with her brown eyes flashing with something I didn't recognize. "I don't hate her, you know, and it's not like I don't want you two to-"

An arrow lodges itself in Harpee's eye. I don't even have time to react as her body falls to the ground, blood pooling from the wound. Finnick reacts faster than me, by spinning fast and seeing the boy from District 6 running towards them. I feel a scream caught in my throat. I can feel it rubbing my throat raw, until there's nothing but blood and pain in its wake. I feel the satchels and my spear fall from my grasp. The fish scatter across the cobblestone like broken glass. I can barely even see as Finnick impales the trident into the other's chest.

Harpee's body lies helpless on the grass floor, _twitching_. Harpee is twitching. Why is she twitching? It feels like the golden sky is going to swallow me. Take me.

Take me far, far away.

I think I'm crying, but I can't say for certain. All I can do is stare unblinkingly at the screen. After killing the boy, Finnick races back to Harpee. He checks her pulse. He says something to her. But I can't hear him. And then he grabs their supplies and leaves.

 _Why are you leaving her? Why are you leaving her?_

Neleus steps outside. I expect him to yell at me for dropping the fish. I expect him to be angry. Instead, he only reaches out and hugs me. He hugs me to his chest.

"It's okay," he says, as his green eyes lift to the screen, watching Finnick run away as fast as he can. "It's okay..."

But it's not okay...it's not.

* * *

Fifteen days. Three left. Finnick alive. Harpee dead.

I don't want to believe she's dead. When I try to pretend she's alive, my mind replays the image of her death. I can see the arrow flying through the air, then lodging itself in her eye. I see the startled look on her face in that split-second of consciousness before she crumples to the ground. I try not to imagine the blood dripping down her cheek. But it's all I see. Even this morning when I dove head-first into the salt water, eyes wide open, and forcing myself to swallow copious amounts of water, I couldn't bring myself to forget. Neleus had been upset with me when he pulled me from the water, but at least he still allows me to work for him. It's better than being at home, and having to listen to my mother repeatedly express her condolences, or listen to my brother critiquing Harpee and Finnick's lack of attention. _Like it was their fault_.

I know in my heart it was, but I try so desperately not to think about it that way. I try to concentrate on the fish I have in front of me, on my little table in front of Neleus' shop. As per usual, he's inside, but lately he's been spending time in the doorway to watch the Games with me. I'm uncertain if he's doing this because he feels bad for me, or if he's trying to keep a close eye on his son. I suppose it doesn't matter either way...at least I'm not alone.

The Games should be over soon. There are only three left.

My eyes lift to the screen in the square. There is a larger crowd than usual, as the conclusion is drawing to a close, and Finnick - our Tribute - is one of the surviving three. The others are the boy from District 7 and the other is the girl from District 8. They're proven to be efficient killers, as they have taken out many during the Games. It won't be an easy fight.

As of now, Finnick is hiding by the stream, in a heavier bed of water; crouched in the bushes with his trident carefully concealed. He is watching as the other two Tributes are fighting with one another. It seems as though they were once allies, as they are walking close at hand to each other, but now they are fighting; yelling, wielding their weapons. They're after Finnick.

"I'm going to plunge that Trident in this throat," snarls the boy.

"I'd like to see you try! _I'm_ going to be the one to kill that Sponsored pretty boy!"

Their bickering is useless.

Finnick has his back pressed against a shadowed tree, with his face scrunched up into that usual look of concentration that I know so well. His fingers tighten around the trident, as his green eyes are flashing between the two Tributes. I know that look, because I've seen that look on his face when he goes fishing. He is gouging what the fish are going to do, and which to spear first. He presses back against the tree harder when the shouting between the Tributes gets louder.

Neleus steps outside to stand beside me, his hand now resting on my shoulder. He's squeezing it, fingers digging into the skin. Truthfully, I've been so numb the last few days I've hardly felt anything, but I feel this. And I can feel my heartbeat accelerating with ferocity within my chest. My mind is racing.

The boy draws his axe high, lunging at the girl to lodge it into her head. The girl dodges, sidestepping the boy as to pull out her knife and stab it deep within his side. The boy yelps in pain, his body falling over to the ground as he writhes in place, hands gripping the hilt. Without any thought, he pulls it out, and the blood that spurts from the wound begins to stain his jacket and the forest floor. He clings tightly to his axe, attempting to swing it at her leg. Once more, she dodges his attack, and slams her foot down on the boy's side. There is a loud _squish_ followed by the horrible sound of the boy's agonized screams. He calls out for his mother in a moment of vulnerability, and the girl simply pries the axe from his hand, as he tries to keep hold of it, and raises it high above her head.

I close my eyes as the boy's skull is cracked open.

 _Canon_.

My eyes open.

The girl is standing over the body, staring at it with such contempt. "If you had just cooperated and let me have 4, then I could've killed you painlessly and quickly," she says, in a tone that indicates some sort of sympathy, or compassion, or regret. She is mournful of what she's done, that much is certain, but it does not last long before she starts to loot the body of its weapons.

Finnick wastes no time as she is preoccupied.

In a swift, unrelenting movement, Finnick is on his feet, and his trident raised high. The girl only has time to raise her head, with lips parted in horror, before the trident is soaring in her direction. With careful aim and force, it flies through the air in her direction, and with acute aim it finds itself in her chest. The girl wasn't even able to grab a knife or the axe before she falls back to the ground, choking on her own blood with the trident embedded deep within her. Finnick jogs from his hiding spot to get to her. She lay shaking on the ground, blood spilling from her mouth, as her chest is undoubtedly collapsing.

He holds the hilt of the trident. "Don't worry. It'll be fast." He removes the trident, and then impales her head.

Just like that, it's over.

"He won," Neleus breathes, his grip relaxing on my shoulder.

Breathing has become difficult, as I am unable to process what has just taken place. _Boom goes the canon_. Finnick won. He won the Games. I can't bring myself to be angry over it, to feel that he has robbed me of my right to be District 4's new Victor. I am so overcome by such raw emotion that I can do nothing but watch as he stares at the dead bodies around him, his breathing heavy. He looks so tired. But he also looks so determined. So confident.

"He did," I breathe in return. "He did it, he..."

Thunderous applause roars in the square and across the District, each voice singing Finnick's name. _He won._ My father kept his promise. My eyes close. And now I have to keep mine.

* * *

"What day does Finnick come home?"

I already know the answer to this question, of course, as we have been told the time and day of which they would come home. It's the perks of my father being a Mentor and a Victor...you get the details firsthand. But still, I like hearing it from someone who isn't my mother.

Neleus is reeling in the nets from beneath the blue surface when I ask this query. His shoulders heave in a burly shrug. "Sometime tomorrow," he confesses. I notice that since the conclusion of the Games that Neleus has seemed more relaxed. He does not smile, but there is a definite softness in his eyes. "Eager to welcome home the conquering hero?"

Despite myself, I smile. "I'm eager to critique him."

I'm standing on the beach, organizing the fish we've been catching within the last few hours into separate satchels. I know that my time working beneath Neleus is short-lived, since Finnick will be returning home, and my father will come back and I will work under him again. This beach will become the resting ground of dealings once again. I brush my thumb over the scales of a dead, dark fish; noting how its scales resemble a deep shade of amethyst. Finnick would like this fish, I think. He'd throw it at me and suggest I turn it into a hat.

My smile broadens.

"I bet you're relieved to have your fisherman back soon," I say.

Neleus shrugs. "You'd be surprised. You're somewhat tolerable after a while, so I'll admittedly miss having you work for me." He offers a half-smile similar to that of Finnick's, though it lacks the same boisterous confidence he possesses. "Still, Finnick is better, so I imagine I won't miss you for too long."

"Rheon is easier to work with, so them coming back will be mutually beneficial for us both."

Neleus makes a grunting sound that I can identify as a ghost of a laugh. Trudging from the water, net over his shoulder, he returns to the shore. "I imagine he'll be enthused to see you again." A pause settles over him as he lays the net down, his hands clenching slightly; a tic I've noticed that signals discomfort. "Any word from the girl's parents?"

"No." I don't like talking about Harpee, but it's inevitable. After all, she's not coming home, and she never will - just a body to be delivered to her parents to be buried. "They haven't said anything since the beginning, and Mara's been cooped up in her house. They're just mourning."

"Aren't you?"

I decide not to answer.

"There's no shame in it."

I shake my head. "Finnick is going to come home soon. Let's just focus on that, okay?"

"Whatever you will."

I suppose I am mourning. It's easier to pretend that I'm not, rather than letting the gruesome reality of Harpee's death haunt me. When I close my eyes, I imagine one of two things; Finnick winning the Games of the arrow lodged in Harpee's eye. I've woken my mother and brother up at night from my sobs in the middle of the night, as I imagine being chased by Harpee's body, which moves mechanically yet quickly, voice disorientated as her one good eye stare vengefully at me. She is so angry in my dreams. Sometimes I wake up before she catches me, and to be honest those are the good dreams. But when she does catch me I feel as though I am trapped in a never ending hell. She claws at my eyes, staring deeply into them until I see nothing but red. She calls me a coward over and over again, until I am jerked awake by my mother. She yells at me for my hysteria, but then promptly holds me. Liber doesn't say anything in the morning or at night, though I know from the bags under his eyes that he's tired.

So am I.

At the very least, I am able to leave the house and escape for the better part of the day to the beach. If I were to be honest, I would confess that I never imagined Neleus Odair as being a comforting presence by comparison to my home, but as I've found in the recent weeks, he's oddly pleasant to be around. He isn't like Rheon, but I don't want him to be. Neleus doesn't care about reprimanding or insulting me. He has little care or respect for those with softened backs or spirits. Lucky for him, I'm neither. But there must be some compassion in him, as he was able to hold me after I watched Harpee die before my eyes, though I know he probably felt some semblance of strain in the idea of losing Finnick in that moment. In short, Neleus is a strange man, but I'm not unhappy with his company.

"Are you going to do anything for Finnick when he comes home?" I ask.

"I'm going to fix him a nice dinner," Neleus says, "and if he needs someone to talk to, I'll listen. I may not be the most cuddly individual or coddling father, but after seeing what my son went through...I feel like he deserves it." A sigh trails after his words, his green eyes lowered to the sand that has curled over his large, calloused feet. They have different types of scars and scratches all across it, creating a spiderweb like design. This probably came from the rocks, I think. "He'll probably be more pleased to see you."

"He told me that if he won I'd have to be his best friend," I confess, feeling a slow smile bud across my mouth. "I suppose that isn't so bad...I just wish..."

I once thought Harpee and Mara were my best friends, but the former is dead and the latter refuses to leave her home, much less speak with me. It's not so bad that Finnick would be my friend, even if he is an insufferable individual. _Will he still be that way?_

"Do you think the Games will have changed hi-?"

I cut myself off, as I see three Peacekeepers descending down the pathway that leads to the beach, one flanked by the two others. It's not so uncommon to see Peacekeepers pass through the beaches, usually to inspect the fishermen or to maintain order if someone was acting up, but I feel something different about these particular Peacekeepers. My back stiffens as I slowly rise to my feet. A small part of me wonders if they're here to tell us that Finnick is back, that he is awaiting us at the train - that he is here, that everything is okay - but then I see a wary look upon Neleus' face and my faith shatters.

Neleus ties a knot in the net before standing upright. "Peacekeepers," he greets.

They pause. The one in front regards Neleus for a moment, and then me. Those helmeted stares are so...unnerving. I usually don't care, but I feel as though something is wrong. Neleus must feel it, too, since he stands so stiffly.

The front Peacekeeper speaks. "You're Neleus Odair, yes?"

I recognize that voice. My mind reels back, as I am brought back to the day that I went to the mayor's home to see Finnick and Harpee before they left. I was guided by a Peacekeeper named -

"Dominic?"

He jerks his head in my direction. Even through the helmet I can see that he is startled he recognizes me. "Ms. Rythe," he greets, cordially yet shakily, and then turns back to Neleus. "Are you Finnick Odair's father?"

"Yes and yes," Neleus replies. "How can I be of service to you gentlemen? Is it my son?"

Dominic does not even move. "We'd like to have a word with you in private, sir. And Ms. Rythe..." He does not even turn when he addresses me. "...go home."

I look between the Peacekeepers and Neleus. "Neleus, I-"

"Do as they say, Ceresea." Neleus reaches out his rough, calloused hand and touches my shoulder. He squeezes it, though it is not the panicked squeeze he'd give me throughout Finnick being in the Games, or even when he realized he had won; it was encouraging. It was the touch of a father. "Get lost. We can resume tomorrow."

I don't want to go. I know something is wrong, but I can see Neleus feels some sense of confidence in this moment; completely unafraid. I try to emulate that within my own, hollow chest. I swallow. The realization of my youth and the fright it carries suddenly weighs heavily upon me, as no longer feel like the strong young woman I usually feel like, but rather the shaken and trembling thirteen year old girl I really am. I can't explain why the Peacekeepers unnerve me, but...I feel it. I _feel_ something wrong. But I can't disobey Neleus.

"I'll see you in the morning," I say, lowly, and then I turn to ascend the dune.

I don't look back, not even when I hear the barest sound of a loud thud, followed by a grunt. _It's probably my imagination,_ I reason as my heart races. _Just my imagination, my imagination_...

* * *

I try not to worry too badly over Neleus. I try to shake off that bad, shivering feeling that courses through me whenever I recollect Dominic and the other Peacekeepers descending down the pathway. In my own head, I try to rationalize that maybe they just had to go over Finnick's arrival; maybe like a rehearsal, or give him grand gifts the Capital had given him. I try to let these thoughts fill my head, and sometimes it works. When I returned home the day prior, after having been sent away, I made an active decision not to tell Demetra or Liber about what I had seen. I merely mention that our fishing had been cut short. In my own head, I think that I was trying to mute the situation; like if I kept quiet then it wasn't real to begin with. That my thoughts weren't as worrisome as they had been. It works for the most part, but even as I go into the next morning, I can't shake it off.

Today is the day that the Victors return home.

My mother wears her prettiest dark blue dress, and decorates my brother and I until we look camera ready - as she so eloquently puts it. She even braids my hair for me, though she grumbles as she does it since she considers it straw-like. Admittedly, my hair is not as fluffy or curly as hers, but I'm not one to really care about her opinion in this regard. It's not like I could _choose_ my hair.

But now we're by the train, waiting for the arrival of our Victors. The rumble of the train's impending arrival roars like thunder in the distance, triggering excited noises from everyone in the crowd. Mayor Euphyra is standing proudly at the head of the crowd, prepared to greet the Victors with equally uproarious applause. Peacekeepers line the crowd to keep the peace. When I see them and their white uniforms, so mechanical and dehumanized, I feel my heart start to race again. I have flashbacks to yesterday, with Neleus looking over Dominic with a cautious eye, as he hisses me away. It was not an annoyed action, but rather one meant to...protect. I don't know if this is the fitting word, but it almost clicks into place.

My eyes rove over the crowd, my nails scratching against each other from behind my back. My mother would reprimand me if she caught me doing this, but her eyes are tracked on the rail, her own fingers over her lips as she anxiously awaits the man she calls husband, the man I inherited my hair from. It does not take long for me to realize that Neleus is not in the crowd of faces. He _should_ on the right hand of the mayor, as the families usually are in District 4, awaiting to greet his son. When he proved to be not there, my eyes searched out everywhere else. He's nowhere. He's just gone.

"Neleus isn't he-"

I'm cut off by the roar of the train's arrival. It appears in view, breaking through the seeming hushed excitement as it them boomed to life. The crowd roared with deafening applause. My brother mirrored their noises and their actions, as my mother stared with a warm smile forward. My eyes were working rapidly through the crowd, trying to search out the signature copper red hair and the tanned skin of Neleus. He isn't _here_. How is he not here? Earlier yesterday, he had been telling me how excited he was to see Finnick again - excited in his own way - and I knew in that moment that he would never miss _this_.

I try not to even contemplate the idea that something terrible had happened to Neleus Odair, as the Peacekeepers would have no business doing any harm or foul play to the Victor's father. My heart races faster, as my forehead thickens with sweat. The words of my father from years ago seem to echo in my ears. _The Capital likes to play their own games_ , he says. I didn't know what he meant at the time, as the Hunger Games _were_ the Capitol's games, so what else could they play? But I know his words somehow apply to this. What game could Neleus have a role in? _Why_?

I don't even notice as Ivoree steps off of the platform to announce Finnick Odair, as he is trailed by the other Victors. The applause grows. My eyes finally lift to the platform.

Finnick is wearing a white, silvery shirt that resembles scales, with a dark vest and dark trousers. He looks as though he were molded to be some sort of Capitolian, as his attire does not necessarily fit in the theme of District 4, but this is not abnormal. My eyes stare rigidly at him as he waves to us all, his green eyes roving over to the mayor, and then flicking out towards the crowd. I see that smile of his briefly falter, as his hand lowers for a mere instant. As if snapping out of a trance, he resumes to play the game. But I catch that moment and hold onto it. Finnick sees what I see. He must notice that Neleus is not here. He is startled, maybe even hurt - but he noticed. No one else seems to care.

He waves in a grand motion, as the mayor proudly and loudly welcomes Finnick Odair, the winner of the 65th annual Hunger Games, back to District 4. The title does not even sting like it used to. I don't feel that tightening, ugly sense of envy. I'm not picturing myself up there in this place, with my parents staring at me adoringly - for once in their lives - with Harpee and Mara cheering my name - or Finnick kneeling down to finally admit to my superiority. I'm not thinking about any of those things. All I can see are Finnick's now dimly lit eyes gravely searching out the crowd. For once in our lives, we share something; the confusion and unease of Neleus' whereabouts.

I want to step forward to embrace Finnick and welcome him home, or alternatively, call out to him so that he knows he has someone waiting for him. The faces of the crowd stare at him with absolute adoration, as if he is the pinnacle of greatness. Mara stares at him as if he is scum on her boot, or raw bait that is too old even for the fish.

The Victors part like the sea, each going to greet their respective family members, and Finnick is flanked by two peacekeepers. I feel as though I am being choked, and my foot is already in front of me in an attempt to race forward, when the mayor speaks.

"Let us excuse our great Victor so that he may settle in his new home!"

 _That's right_.

Now that Finnick is a Victor, he will live in the higher parts of the District. _Is Neleus waiting there?_ Finnick is being led away, but Rheon steps in front of me to cover my view of him.

"Ceres," he greets, and he wraps his arms stiffly around me.

I don't return the hug. "Dad, Finnick-"

"You can see him later," he hisses in my ear, and then pulls away. "Let's go home. I need...I need rest."

"Dad, I-"

"Listen to your father, Ceresea," Demetra says, in a sharper tone than his.

This shuts me up for now, at least.

* * *

"I want to see Finnick," I say to my mother, an hour after we have returned home. "Neleus wasn't there today. Don't you find that strange?"

"Neleus is a distant man," Demetra says, quietly.

She is sitting at a table overlooking the seaside, her fingers brushing over the rim of her cup. My father is in the parlor, with Liber asking about the Capitol with such excitement that I wish we could just ship him there. But at the present time he's not my priority; Finnick is.

"He's a good father," I defend, in a sharp tone that makes my mother snap her head up. She opens her mouth to scold me, but I quickly and efficiently cut her off. "He wouldn't just bail on Finnick like that. _You_ know that. I just want to go to Finnick's house to-"

"Let the boy rest," Demetra sighs. "He just returned home from the _Games_. You can't imagine what that's like for a young boy like that." She takes a slow sip of her tea, eyes never leaving me. Once she puts her cup down, her lips purse into a tart smile. "If anything, you should consider paying a visit to Harpee's parents and offering your condolences."

 _That_ stabs deeply within my chest, leaving me with a sharp gasp that feels as though the air has left my body. My mother has never gone for a low blow such as that before. It genuinely leaves me startled, though given my mother's evident dislike towards me, I can't help but feel as though I should have seen it coming. My eyes sting, though it isn't from tears; it's from anger. With my teeth grinding, hands clenching, I spin around fast and leave the kitchen.

"I'll be back later," I call.

I'm thankful that she makes no move to stop me. When I reach the door, I swing it open and am met by a startling sight.

Finnick is standing outside my door, hands in the pockets of his nice pants, and his green eyes staring deeply into my own. They aren't the usually bright, charmed eyes that I associate Finnick with, but rather bloodshot and cold; staring ahead as if I was translucent. He stands so stiffly that I wonder if he is a comatose statue, a frozen shell of the Finnick I knew from over a month ago. I open my mouth to speak when he slowly lifts his head up, lips quirking into a wry, broken smile. It twitches in place, leading me lift my eyes to his. They are glassing over with the threat of tears.

I have never seen Finnick cry. I never even saw him cry when his mother died; he put up some sort of front, as if to protect his reputation, or masculinity. But now I can see those walls crumbling down.

"Finnick," I breathe out, taking a step forward out of the doorway.

"My father is dead."

* * *

 **(a/n): I apologize if this chapter felt rushed. It was kind of the chapter I was most eager to get by, especially since the next chapter actually really goes into the plot, and we're out of the backstory. But we have finally moved out of Finnick's experience in the Games! Albeit with some...tragedy there. You guys will find out what happened to Neleus in the next chapter. The next chapter will move ahead in time, though. So you know what that means...time to move on to Ceres and her joining the Games, and her interacting with Finnick...things are gonna get very complicated. If you like this chapter, please leave a review! I love your reviews, guys! And thank you to everyone who favorites and follows this story! 3**

 _ **Review replies.**_

 **MaxineNixZhong:** Thank you so much for your kind words! I really appreciate it! The last few chapters have been admittedly slow, but the idea was to introduce the new characters and relationships before going into the story. But now that we are going into the main story, you're going to see a lot of Finnick and Ceres interactions. In fact, next chapter will feature...a lot of it. ;)

 **Laure:** I'm very glad you saw that! That was my idea behind Neleus. To have Ceres view him as this horrible father, but really, he's a good guy just trying to survive. He's bracing for the worst. I was sad to off him, but it's necessary. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that you'll enjoy the Finnick and Ceres interactions next chapter. ;)


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